


Unexpected

by readergirl1013



Series: Falling Into Place [1]
Category: Criminal Minds, Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Case Fic, Change of Character History, Developing Relationship, Kidnapping, Long Distance Relationship, M/M, Minor Character Death, Past Child Abuse, Past Torture, Psychological Torture, Slash, Spoilers, Torture, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-05
Updated: 2015-12-05
Packaged: 2017-12-25 17:18:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 76,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/955708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/readergirl1013/pseuds/readergirl1013
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Spencer Reid is called into the office shortly after Hotch is hurt by the Reaper, the last thing he expects to see is a strange Air Force Colonel sitting at the round table. The last thing John Sheppard expected was to be woken up by O'Neill in the middle of the night telling him to get to Quantico to help solve a serial murder case. And the last thing either of the two men expected was to develop feelings for each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is going to be a long and epic length fic, in which I will be exploring the developing relationship between the two men. The stories perspective will shift between Spencer Reid and John Sheppard, and detail each of their opinions and personal narratives. The story begins as a case-fic that occurs directly after Criminal Minds Season 5 "Nameless, Faceless" while Atlantis is stuck on Earth, and will continue over the length of the Criminal Minds series. A large portion of this story will be the two men writing and video messaging to one another, with only sporadic personal visits and slowly falling in love. As a warning, a lot of John Sheppard's background has been altered to fit the needs of the story. If you do not like this slowly developing style of story, or any other part of what I have just said, please do not read this. I write for my own fun, and I'm sharing my story because I figure some other people might enjoy it, not to be ridiculed. If a reader would like to leave positive constructive criticism, I'd appreciate it, every work is, in some way, a work in progress. This one certainly is.

May 28, 2009

Spencer Reid had only been asleep for six and a half hours when his phone began to beep. With a groan he picked up his cell and answered with a grumpy, “What?” He hated back to back cases, and Hotch was in the hospital leaving them a team member short.

“Spence, there’s a case. It’s bad, and I need you in the conference room as soon as possible.”

“Seriously JJ? We just got home and Hotch is in the hospital.” Spencer tried not to whine. Listening to her reply, he sighed, “Fine. I’ll be there soon.” Grumbling to himself he stumbled over to his closet and pulled out some clothes, not paying attention to what he pulled out.

With a sigh he looked at the clock, grabbed his keys, and headed out the door.

***

Limping into the BAU on his crutches, he didn’t even notice the looks the few agents still in the office gave him, he simply headed straight to the coffee pot, grabbed a mug, and then headed to the conference room.

Walking into the room, he froze, surprised to see a strange man talking quietly with JJ and Garcia. At his entrance all three looked up, the man offering him a smile and a cursory glancing over, before his gaze shifted back to Spencer’s chest briefly and raising an eyebrow. The strange man’s smile then grew slightly larger as he glanced over Spencer again in a far more assessing gaze, before his gaze settled on Spencer’s face. Spencer was confused, especially when he noticed that Garcia was grinning smugly at him and JJ was staring blankly at his chest, before both broke into giggles.

Spencer stared at them blankly, too tired to even pretend to understand what they were laughing at. Girls were strange, and he didn’t understand them at the best of times. The strange man seemed to be ignoring the two women, and glanced up at Spencer, with a small smile, “Hi, John Sheppard, I’m going to be assisting on your current case.”

“Dr. Spencer Reid,” Spencer answered, waving at the man, pleased he hadn’t tried to shake hands. He looked the man over noticing the black fatigues, short (if messy) hair and alert hazel-green eyes, and pegged the man as military despite his slouched posture, black wristband, and missing rank insignia. “What branch of the military are you?”

The man, Sheppard, didn’t even seem surprised by the question, “Air Force. What’s your doctorate in?”

Spencer blinked in surprise, he wasn’t asked that very often, and a quick glance at JJ and Garcia showed them to be whispering to one another. “I have three, Mathematics, Chemistry and Engineering.” He paused, waiting for the gaping look, the awed eyes, the ‘But you’re so young!’ comments that were inevitable.

Instead Sheppard simply said, “Huh. What type of engineering? Mine are in Mathematics and Aerospace Engineering.”

Spencer did a double take, the man did not give off the aura of an academic, and noticed that Garcia and JJ were now staring in surprise at the military man, “Geomatics Engineering. What rank are you and why are you assisting with this case?”

“Because General O’Neill called me up in the middle of the night and told me that I’ve been recalled to temporary duty as an OSI Agent, and ordered me here. And I’m a Colonel.”

“Colonel? You’re pretty young to be a Colonel.” Morgan said as he came in, looking Sheppard over, as Sheppard did the same to him.

“Actually, the absolute minimum amount of time in uniform for an officer to be promoted to O-6, or Colonel, is 12.5 years, although the average is 22 years in service. Meaning that based on the fact that the minimum age officers can be commissioned is 18 someone could theoretically become a Colonel as young as 30 years six months.” Spencer informed Morgan.

“I’m not quite that young, since I was commissioned at 19, and I was only promoted to Colonel last month, but I am probably one of the youngest, if not the youngest Colonel currently serving in the United States Military. Which amuses me- my drill instructor repeatedly told me I’d never make it past Captain.” Sheppard grinned.

“So how old are you then?” Garcia piped up.

“I’ll be 35 next month.”

“Really? And you have two doctorates as well? Are you a military scientist then?” Spencer questioned, “Is that why you were assigned by the newly appointed Head of Military Operations of Homeland Security to the investigation?”

Sheppard’s grin never wavered even as he raised an eyebrow, “Yes really. Two doctorates and an MA in Psychology. No, I’m trained as a pilot. And O’Neill sent me because I’m familiar with investigative procedure, and wasn’t doing anything of vital importance at the moment since my base is on stand-down for a bit and I was only doing a TDA at Fairchild to keep busy.” He paused, as if considering, “Not to mention, I fit the request Agent Jareau gave when asking for a liaison familiar with the… situation."

“Request?” Spencer began another round of questions, but was cut off by Morgan looking at him while taking a sip of coffee and literally doing a spit-take.

“Reid, what the hell man? What are you wearing?” Morgan asked incredulously after he stopped choking on his coffee.

Spencer looked at him, confused, but glanced down at his shirt when Morgan flapped a hand at his chest. He groaned aloud when he saw which shirt he’d grabbed without looking, it was one a friend had given him for his birthday last year, and it read ‘If you want to taste the Rainbow let’s go back to my place.’ And the word “Rainbow” was done in rainbow colors and covered in glitter. She had gotten it for him to wear when they went out to her favorite bar, not for him to wear to work. Mortified he put his head in his hands and sunk as low as he could get into his chair.

He sunk even lower as he heard his team mates laughing, and Morgan’s “Man, Reid why didn’t you tell me? I’d have stopped trying to give you tips with the ladies if I’d known.”

He startled a bit when he felt a warm hand placed on his shoulder, patting awkwardly. Looking up through his hair he saw Sheppard was the one trying to comfort him, and at his glance up offered him a sympathetic smile. Spencer offered him a shy one back.

Spencer noticed that Sheppard stiffened and looked over his head well before he heard footsteps drawing nearer. Turning he saw that it was Prentiss, and then he noticed that at the angle Sheppard was seated at, he couldn’t see out the door, meaning he had heard Prentiss footsteps. He also noticed that Sheppard’s hand had been removed from his shoulder, and was now resting somewhere under the table.

Spencer blinked, well that move answered the question of whether Sheppard served in a combat zone. Moving his hand into Sheppard’s line of sight, he held up the military hand signal for “friendly” and relaxed at the same time Sheppard did. Prentiss walked in and exchanged greetings with the others, before turning to Spencer and Sheppard.

“Emily Prentiss, this is our liaison for the case, Colonel,” JJ was cut off as Prentiss grinned and strode forward.

“John Sheppard. Well I’ll be, I didn’t think I’d see you again, figured you were in some Middle Eastern hellhole profiling Al Qaeda members for the military.”

“Prentiss, it’s good to see you again too. Finally got into the BAU I see?” Sheppard replied, giving Prentiss a smile. Spencer noticed his brief hesitation before shaking Prentiss’ outstretched hand; and his neat avoidance about the question of what he was doing these days.

Garcia looked back and forth between the two, pointing at both before commenting, “Wait, wait, wait; you two know each other? Details!”

“We were in the same profiling training class, the teacher used to pair us together fairly often since he hated us both.” Prentiss explained.

Sheppard just hummed in agreement, and JJ asked why the teacher hated them. “He hated me because I’d just transferred from Interpol, and he was insecure about that, he kept asking if I felt like I was being demoted. He hated Sheppard because, well,” Prentiss paused, and Sheppard continued.

“I was an ‘upstart Air Force OSI Captain who thought he was better than he really was’ apparently. Also, he kept insinuating that any child who was abused would end up some sort of serial killer or rapist. I kept disagreeing. We agreed to disagree after the third time he had me dragged before the Deputy Director, and I told him what was really going on.”

“You also got him fired.” Prentiss smirked, “For hitting on the female trainees, and the fact that the man had managed to gain access to sealed files.”

“Yup,” Sheppard smirked as he popped the ‘p’ and Prentiss rolled her eyes.

“So what are you up to these days, Shep?” Prentiss asked as she sat down.

“At the moment, I’m running a specialized, advanced SERE course for high-risk military assets in combatting mental coercion and surviving long-term torture out at Fairchild.”

“Jesus Christ,” Spencer heard JJ mutter under her breath. Garcia looked absolutely horrified at the thought of the course being necessary, and both Prentiss and Morgan looked taken aback. He was sure he looked surprised as well.

“Well that sounds perfectly horrific.” Spencer found himself speaking into the ensuing silence.

“But sadly necessary.” Sheppard replied. Spencer merely bobbed his head in agreement.

Morgan changed the subject, “So why do we need a liaison for the case? What’s going on that we can’t handle?”

Spencer was also curious as to the answer, and turned to face Sheppard for the answer, which turned out to be a shrug. He then looked at JJ, who shook her head and said, “I’ll tell you about the case when Rossi gets here, I don’t want to have to go over this twice.”

The room descended into idle chatter, the women gossiping, most likely about Sheppard based on their glances. Sheppard was busy looking at his phone, but Spencer noticed that he seemed to be looking at the same section of text without changing it, and his ears were bright red. Morgan was playing with his phone, Spencer recognized the sounds of “Doodle Jump” coming from the cell. Spencer himself was organizing his notes, and getting ready for the briefing.

After a few minutes of waiting, Rossi walked into the room, apologizing as he entered, “Sorry I’m late, I-” he caught sight of Sheppard sitting at the conference room table and dropped his mug of coffee, not even noticing it shatter on the floor. “Johnny?” Rossi asked, “Johnny Sheppard, is that you?”

“Hi, Agent Rossi.”

“Don’t tell me you did something stupid kid.”

“If I’d done something stupid I wouldn’t be in this room would I? I’d be in one of your scenic interrogation suites down the hall.”

“Cute, kid. Now why are you here?”

JJ cleared her throat, “I was about to let you all know.” She passed out the case files, “There’s been a series of murders in the vicinity of Colorado Springs, Colorado over the last three years. Police have only recently tied the murders together with the discovery of the last victim, Sergeant Paolo Orsini, US Marine Corps, three days ago.”

Spencer noticed Sheppard’s look shocked and angry briefly, before his face went blank again. That was interesting. JJ continued, pushing the remote to bring the images of fifteen men onto the screen, “The cases weren’t tied together since there’s apparently no consistent victimology, and the unsub crossed jurisdictions, and counties. It wasn’t until the murder of the eleventh victim, Colorado Springs Police Officer Patrick Johns that anyone even suspected this might be a serial, since the investigating detective noted that it looked similar to victim number five, Michael English’s murder. After that Colorado State Police started looking for similar murders and put this list of fifteen together.”

“I’m not surprised they didn’t connect these murders, this guy was all over the map. The only thing the victims have in common is that they’re all men. He’s crossed age and race, all from different areas and backgrounds. The oldest victim has to be at least 80, and Orsini looks like he’s what, 25? What can they possibly have in common?” Morgan thought aloud as he flipped through the case file.

“Orsini was 24.” Sheppard replied shortly, his jaw tight.

“You knew the victim?” Rossi looked at Sheppard piercingly.

“He’s… was, one of my men. Had been from 2005 until this February, when my base got put on stand-down. He was a good man, and a good Marine.” He paused, looking back over the faces again before frowning. “Can you zoom in on victim number 3? He looks familiar too.”

JJ complied, and Sheppard seemed to stare at the face for a moment before he spoke up again, “I’m not sure but I think we did a tour together in Kosovo in the late ‘90s, we never really spoke or anything.”

JJ glanced at Garcia, “We’ll look into that, but that is what ties the victims together. Every single one of these men was in the United States military, and they all served in war zones. They come from four branches of the military, and they were all honorably discharged, except for the last four victims; Sergeant Eugene Gantry of the US Army; Captain Matthew Benjamin, Marines; Airman First Class Vincent Massimo; and Sergeant Paolo Orsini, Marines. Gantry was stationed at Fort Carson; Benjamin, Massimo and Orsini at Cheyenne Mountain.”

“Anything else connecting them? Because if not, practically every man in Colorado Springs is a potential victim, there’s like four bases in the city.” Morgan pointed out.

“Five, if you count the Air Force Academy. There’s Fort Carson, Peterson, Schriever, and Cheyenne Mountain. Not to mention the number of defense and aerospace industry installations in the city- Boeing, General Dynamics, SAIC, ITT, Northrup Grumman, Lockheed Martin and the Harris Corporation to name a few. And the defense industry draws a lot of employees with military backgrounds.” Spencer thought aloud, “There has to be something else connecting them, at least in the unsub’s mind.”

“Due to the current rules regarding military service this is not confirmed, but it is suspected that all of the victims were gay. The first victim, Carlos Hernandez had a life partner Nicholas Simpson. Andre Carter and Jacob Lewis were both out. Mark Johnson recently lost his partner of 25 years to a heart attack. Michael English was the owner of a number of gay clubs throughout the state. Anthony Russo was married to a Charles Winston, they apparently met during the Gulf War, and had been together ever since. The only victims we don’t know for sure were homosexual are Johns, Gantry, Benjamin, Massimo and Orsini. Officer Johns partner, Officer Lois DuPont says that she suspected Johns might have been gay, but it is unconfirmed.” JJ told them.

“Orsini’s gay. I caught him and Schmidt in the supply closet on base about three years ago. Those two were one of those things everyone knew, and nobody mentioned.” Sheppard sighed, and rubbed the back of his neck, looking at the ceiling. “Fuck, I’m going to have to tell Schmidt, I doubt anyone on the case had any clue to do so.”

“You knew two of your guys were together, and never said or did anything about it? Even after seeing them together?” Morgan asked, raising an eyebrow. “Not many officers I know would do that, too big a risk to their own careers not to report it.”

“I could care less who my men sleep with, as long as it’s another consenting adult.” Sheppard paused, “And it wasn’t an enemy. I did make sure anybody who was in a relationship never went into the field with their partner. If they were on the same team they were separated, and if it involved men or women with different ranks I made sure the superior had no authority over their lover in any way, even if they only served in the mess and not in the field.”

“That’s an interesting point of view, and completely against all of the fraternization rules of the UCMJ.” Rossi said pointedly.

“I ran the military operations of an international front line garrison in enemy territory in a classified location where we were constantly at war; I didn’t have time to care about stupid shit that had no bearing on whether or not my men were good soldiers who could do their duty. So if Orsini and Schmidt were in a relationship, or Dr. Jim Adams wanted to wear his nicest dress to the local harvest festival, I honestly couldn’t give a flying fuck.”

Sheppard, to Spencer’s surprise, hadn’t once raised his voice or gotten defensive about his point of view, he had merely laid it out calmly, despite Rossi trying to antagonize him. Morgan’s eyebrows had about hit his hairline, and even Spencer was surprised, military men weren’t known for their open minded points of view. JJ however looked satisfied.

“So it’s reasonable to assume that all of the victims were gay men who had been, or currently are, part of the military.” Prentiss pointedly returned the conversation to the case.

“How were the men murdered?” Rossi questioned JJ, “And where were the bodies found?”

“All of the men were taken from public places and were missing for approximately 48 hours, during which time they were tortured extensively, using a knife to make hundreds of shallow cuts, and there is no sign of sexual assault. Also all of the victim’s heads were shaved. The cause of death is a single stab wound through the heart, and their bodies were all found in dumpsters scattered throughout the city. No fingerprints or DNA have been found, in fact the only reason the murders were tied together was the fact that they all had a cross branded on their chest above their heart.” JJ continued to brief them.

Spencer kept one eye on Sheppard, the man was obviously upset at the torture and death of one of his men but it really wasn’t easy to tell that just by looking at him. Based on his facial reactions you’d think the man couldn’t care less; but if you looked at his eyes, the pain was plain to see. Spencer couldn’t help but wonder just why a man would learn to hide his emotions so well.

Tuning back into the conversation, he heard Morgan start giving the preliminary profile, “This is a hate crime. He thinks these men are trash, defiling the uniform of the armed forces. So he, in turn, defiles them and throws them away like the trash he thinks they are.”

“We need to get moving, he seemed to be running on a two month schedule; stalking his victim for two months, abducting, torturing and killing them; and then moving on to his next victim. But he broke pattern, he took Orsini less than a month after Massimo, he’s escalating, and he’ll keep escalating.” Spencer chimed in. He paused considering, “These time gaps, where he deviates from the pattern, probably just mean a body that hasn’t been found yet.”

“There’s more victims?” Garcia asked.

“Probably, Garcia would you-” Morgan began.

“Look through ViCAP for similar MO’s? You got it.”

“Also check the smaller towns in the area, it’s possible that he disposed of a victim in a nearby town and they didn’t bother to upload it to ViCAP.” Spencer told her, studying the body of the most recent victim. “He’s probably already found his next victim.”

“Wheels up in thirty,” Morgan declared, he turned, as if to talk to Sheppard, but found that the man had already grabbed his file and other items and moved over to talk to JJ.

Spencer watched Morgan shrug to himself, and presumably head out to pack up and load the plane, Prentiss following. Garcia headed down to her lair, to start searching and compiling data. Spencer decided to loiter for a bit, noticing that Rossi did the same. Silently he observed Sheppard, JJ and Rossi. Rossi seemed to be looking Sheppard over, checking up on him, making sure he was okay; it was strangely paternal. Sheppard was speaking quietly with JJ, and she was nodding back sympathetically and seemed to agree with what Sheppard was saying.

She reached out to lay a hand on his arm, and Spencer noticed that Rossi stiffened, as if ready to intervene. When Sheppard didn’t even twitch at the contact, Rossi relaxed. That was curious. Spencer looked inquiringly at Rossi, who shook his head, then nodded at Sheppard and JJ, who had finished their conversation and were headed back.

Sheppard walked over to the two of them, “Would one of you mind showing me where Ms. Garcia’s office is, I have a question for her.”

“I can show you Colonel.” Spencer volunteered, he was curious about the man.

“Colonel?” Rossi was surprised.

“We can talk on the plane, Agent Rossi? Catch up?” Sheppard looked at Rossi, and Spencer saw a strange emotion in his eyes, but was unable to place it, his features were an affable mask.

“You bet, kiddo. I want to hear what you’ve been up to.”

“I’ll tell you what I can.”

“And call me Dave, or at least Rossi, you’re not a kid anymore and we’re going to be working together now.”

“Alright, Rossi it is. Call me John, or Sheppard; I haven’t gone by Johnny since I hit my teens.” Sheppard nodded to Rossi, then waved his arm towards the door, “After you Agent Reid. Or do you prefer doctor?”

“Just Reid is fine, Colonel.”

“Call me Sheppard then.”


	2. Chapter 2

John followed Reid down into the bullpen, and then down the hall towards another room. Opening the door, he paused briefly. The room was surprisingly colorful.

“Welcome to the Office of Supreme Omniscience, speak and be heard humble mortals.” Garcia chirped at them.

John stared at her suspiciously. Great, now he’d have to call O’Neill and have Garcia scanned for a Goa’uld. That would look wonderful to his “new teammates”.

“I was joking, Colonel Grumpy-but-Sexy. What can I do for you?”

“Right.” John paused, collecting his thoughts a bit, he rarely had to make this request anymore, since everything on Atlantis was digitized and he could adjust the font on his own, and he only really needed it changed when he was tired. “I was hoping you’d be willing to print out the case file again for me.”

“What’s wrong with that one?” Garcia pointed at the file with a feathered pen.

“Nothing’s wrong with it, I was just hoping you’d change the font for me. To Comic Sans, please?” Sheppard asked, hoping to avoid explaining his request.

“Anything else, oh great and powerful Oz?” Garcia snapped sarcastically at him.

“You’re dyslexic? I recently read a fascinating article where they were testing out new fonts specifically for use with those who are dyslexic in order to help them distinguish between the letters, it’s quite interesting really.” Reid began to babble at him, and John should have expected that someone that smart would put two and two together, “Of the standard fonts tested, Comic Sans is rated as the easiest to read by those diagnosed with dyslexia, and Times New Roman the most difficult. Garcia, if you could print that on cream or off-white colored paper without any shine to it that might help too. If that’s alright with you Colonel?”

Garcia simply nodded meekly, apparently she was a bit chagrined at having jumped to conclusions. She had probably taken note of John’s light blush as well.

“Yeah, thanks.” John paused, considering how to phrase the next part for a moment, “Ms. Garcia, I have another request to make of you, if that’s alright.”

“Go for it, you studly soldier.”

“When you look into my history…”

“Yes?”

“Keep in mind that for some people, trauma is what strengthens them. In others, it breaks them.” John looked at her solemnly, Reid’s gaze a laser on his face, trying to break down his every word. 

“I don’t understand.”

“You will. Oh and remember not to hack any classified military records, and everything will be fine.” John nodded his head at the door, and Reid got the message, telling Garcia goodbye, and leading Sheppard back to the main bullpen of the BAU.

“She’ll send you the files on a tablet, probably. Or maybe fax them.” Reid told him awkwardly.

John shrugged, “Even if she doesn’t, a couple of hours rest and I’ll be able to read this one without issues, I’ll just be reading it ridiculously slowly, I hate this font.”

“Sorry.” Reid shifted awkwardly. John could tell he was analyzing and twisting what John had said around in his head, trying to dissect it. “You, uh, might want to grab your go bag. We need to head to the plane.”

“Right, it’s at the front desk, I wasn’t allowed to bring it into the building.”

“You weren’t?”

“Of course not, it has my weapons in it.”

“Weapons?”

“I’ll show you my weapon later, if you’re nice.” John gave Reid a small grin and a wink. Reid, obviously getting the innuendo, blushed bright red. “You have your bag?” John paused, waiting for Reid’s nod, “Then lead the way, Reid.”

 

***

 

Walking on to the BAU’s plane John was impressed; the Gulfstream G550 was a nice plane, and an expensive one. Looking around the spacious cabin, he let out a low whistle. He sat down on the couch and stretched his legs out.

“Enjoying the accommodations?” Rossi asked him with a raised eyebrow.

“If I’m not the one flying the plane or helicopter, this is definitely the way I prefer to fly. It’s certainly better than a cargo plane.”

Rossi laughed, “Isn’t that the truth.” He paused, sitting down and looking at John, seeming to collect his thoughts, “So, kiddo, how’ve you been since the last time I saw you? What’ve you been up to?”

“Well I finished elementary school.”

Rossi snorted, “That isn’t quite what I meant, Johnny. Sorry, John.”

“Yeah, I’ve been good. On a TDA at Fairchild to keep busy while the base I’m CO of is on stand-down to be rehabbed, retrofitted and upgraded. Probably another four to six months, then back I go. How about you, what have you been up to?”

“Oh, you know, the usual. I’ve been married a few times, retired for a bit, wrote a few books, got bored and came back to the BAU. Are you married? Have any kids?”

“No and no, but I’ve read your books. Interesting stuff- serial killers, spree killers, and psychopaths, oh my.” John paused, wondering what else was innocuous enough to mention to Rossi, finally he decided on “Oh, I have a godson.” John grinned.

“A godson? What’s his name?”

“Torren, he’s the greatest kid ever. He turned one in March. I help his mom out as much as I can since his dad died shortly before he was born. His mom is a member of my team.”

“Do you have any pictures?” Rossi seemed thrilled.

“Uh, yeah, a few.” John opened up his pack, and pulled out the pictures he had of Torren. He smiled at the one of Torren and him sitting and reading Torren’s favorite book, Goodnight Moon, in the rocking chair that Ronon had made for Teyla. There was another of Teyla, Torren and he in San Francisco from his visit last month, the team had all gone out to see the sights, and Ronon and Rodney had been off getting crab when a passing tourist had offered to take their picture. The third picture was of an infant Torren, asleep on a sleeping John’s chest, while Ronon and McKay were asleep in nearby chairs. The fourth and final picture was of the team standing on New Athos with Teyla holding an infant Torren.

“He’s adorable John.”

“He knows it too.” John laughed.

“Who knows what?” Morgan asked as he walked on the plane, catching sight of the pictures, Morgan leaned over to get a better look. “Oh, isn’t he handsome.” When Rossi flipped to the picture of John, Teyla and Torren- Morgan blinked, that was one beautiful woman. “You have a lovely family Colonel.”

John gave him a small smile, and was about to thank him, when he realized what Morgan was implying, “Wait…” he began, but was interrupted by Prentiss and Jareau boarding the plane.

“What are we looking at?” Prentiss asked as they walked over.

“Sheppard’s kid. What’s his name?” Morgan asked, looking over at John.

“You have a child?” Reid asked as he walked on board, John absently noted that he’d changed shirts.

“Oh my god, look at those big brown eyes! He’s so cute.” Jareau cooed. Prentiss was looking a little bit mushy eyed as well.

“Torren,” John answered Morgan, he turned to answer Reid, but was cut off by Prentiss.

“That’s an unusual name, where’s it from?”

“Uh, it was Teyla’s father’s name.” He told her. Looking at Reid, he said, “And no, he’s my godson, not my son.”

“You keep pictures of your godson with you?” Morgan asked, eyebrows raised.

“Yes.” John was slightly puzzled by the question, of course he kept pictures of Torren with him.

There was a lull in the conversation as the others passed the photos around and then, finally, back to John. He tucked them back into his bag, overhearing JJ murmur to Prentiss that it was nice to see some happy pictures on this plane for once.

After a few minutes everyone fell into conversation for a bit, Jareau and Prentiss talking, while Morgan added in a comment every now and then. Rossi and he caught up, avoiding any sensitive topics, while Reid pretended he wasn’t eavesdropping, and he and Rossi pretended they hadn’t noticed him listening in.

After about thirty minutes the plane finally took off, and the team gathered together to discuss the case, while John observed (at least until he had something to add.)

“Let’s review the case, and then try and catch some shut eye before we land in Colorado.” Morgan said, drawing everyone back to task. “Alright, what do we know?”

“There are fifteen known victims, between ages 88 and 24, of all races, their only known connection thus far being that they are all (presumably) gay men who were or are military.” Prentiss summed up.

“Do you notice that as time goes on he’s targeting younger and more fit men? He starts off with men who have probably been out of the military for years, if not decades, and is slowly targeting more and more difficult victims. The thrill of the kill is lessening, so he’s escalating to younger, more difficult victims.” Reid pointed out, studying the case files.

“What about victim number three, Andre Carter, he was only thirty-eight?” Jareau asked.

“According to his file, Carter lost both his legs due to an IED in 2004.” Reid told her, “He probably wasn’t difficult to subdue.” 

“His method of torturing them by covering their bodies with hundreds of shallow cuts is definitely unique, and sadistic,” Rossi noted, “and his confidence is definitely growing as he goes on, his first victim had 132 cuts on his body, none near major arteries or veins. His last eleven victims have each had exactly 1,000 cuts on their bodies. It’s become his signature, that and the brand of the cross.”

“I don’t think Hernandez was this guy’s first victim. There’s no sign of hesitation. Not in the cuts, not in the brand, not in the stab wound.” Morgan stated, and the others all nodded their agreements. 

“I think he’s a sexual sadist.” John said, at their skeptical looks he shrugged and continued, “But I don’t think he realizes that, or if he has he’s in some serious denial.”

“That makes sense actually!” Reid exclaimed, “At first he killed to rid the world of men he considered to be trash, probably related to someone he knows and their mistreatment of him. But after that first kill, he liked it, and he denies that, so he attempts to hide his sexual gratification in the acts by marking them religiously, branding them with a cross. The cuts are remarkably similar to an ancient Chinese torture and execution method known as ling chi, or slow slicing. It was reserved for the most heinous of crimes, and accounts on the practice are varied, but the most common interpretation is the execution of the criminal through 1,000 cuts, sometimes followed by a stab through the heart.”

“Yeah, I was more referring to the fact that the last six victims all look really similar. They’re Caucasian, mid-20s to mid-30s, dark brown or black hair, brown or hazel eyes. He’s definitely got a type; I just don’t think he’s realized it.” John pointed out.

“He’s right,” Prentiss said as she looked over the photos, “Although Officer Johns was biracial.”

“That may be, but he looks more white than not.” Rossi commented.

Prentiss hummed in agreement. “This is a guy who’s organized- he keeps to a tight schedule, two days of torture, hundreds of painstaking cuts, the perimortem branding, and final stab wound, as well as the lack of physical evidence all point to a man who is meticulous, controlled.”

“This guy’s a psychopath and sadist who justifies his killing as ‘cleaning up’ men he considers trash. He obviously craves power and control, look at the control it takes to slice someone up like this, to keep strong young guys like the later victims under control.” Morgan waved the case file at them. “He’s probably married, with children, and most likely an active member of the community, especially in church.”

“Probably not the most tolerant of churches, he’d need validation that killing gay men is the right thing to do, what God would want him to do.” Rossi said. 

“I’ll start a geographic profile as soon as we land, see if there’s any pattern to the abduction and dump sites.” Reid offered.

“Before you do that, go to the morgue to see the latest victim, see what you can learn.” Reid nodded at the instructions, “Morgan and Prentiss, you guys go to the most recent abduction site. JJ and I will go to the most recent dump site, see if there’s anything.” Rossi instructed.

John cleared his throat. Rossi looked over at him for a moment, before saying, “Sheppard, you knew the latest victim, I want you going over everything you know about him, and cross-referencing his life against the other victims, see what overlaps, check out the military angle and their social lives in particular. Conference in Garcia to help you.” 

John nodded, “Sure, but first I’ve got to make a phone call when we land.”

“To who?” queried Jareau.

“Orsini’s partner- Stabsunteroffizier Hans Schmidt, of the Deutsches Bundeswehr. He’s stationed back in Germany until my base is re-opened. I’ve got to call and tell him his partner of three and a half years was murdered, I doubt any of the investigating officers knew to do so.” 

“I’m sorry you have to do that Colonel.” Jareau said quietly.

John smiled bitterly, “It isn’t anything new, Agent Jareau, not in the places I’ve been stationed. People die, and someone has to tell their loved ones, and that someone is usually their commanding officer.”

They all fell silent after that, John noted, lost in their own thoughts. They had a plan of action laid out for their arrival, and slowly they drifted off into sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The idea that John is dyslexic comes from both his slow reading of "War and Peace" that he mentioned in Season One, his dislike of paperwork, and the fact that throughout the series I can't remember seeing him reading anything even once. He mentions literature he read as a child, but books on tape have been around for a while, even if they only recently became popular. It isn't canon, but I decided that I liked the idea. The information about dyslexia that Reid mentions is from the internet, I am not dyslexic, nor do I know anyone who is. If anybody has more accurate information based on personal experience, please let me know, I like my stories to be as accurate as possible.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS A GRAPHIC DESCRIPTION OF PAST PHYSICAL AND SEXUAL ABUSE OF A MAIN CHARACTER. THIS IS A PART OF THE PLOT LINE, IF YOU DON'T LIKE IT, DON'T READ IT.

Walking into the Colorado State Police Department in Colorado Springs Spencer noticed that it looked like every other police department in the country- drab bull pen filled with overworked officers with too many cases piled on their desks. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed a tall man in his early forties, of what appeared to be Indonesian descent walking towards them. “Detective Carl Salazar, you must be the BAU. I’m the primary on the case. Thanks for coming.”

He held his hand out, and Spencer was glad when Sheppard took the lead. “John Sheppard, and this is Spencer Reid.”

“Nice to meet you,” the detective greeted Spencer perfunctorily, Spencer merely waved back. “I’m glad you guys are here, this is one sick son of a bitch my guys are really gunning for- killing veterans and now cops and active duty guys, that’s something that pisses every one of us off. Especially since over half of my guys are former military, including me.”

“Yeah, we aren’t too happy about it either.” Sheppard answered him shortly, and Spencer stifled a snort. Rossi and Morgan were both steaming mad at this guy killing veterans, and Sheppard was going to turn into a board if his shoulders got any stiffer. JJ and Prentiss were both angry and as for himself? Spencer was seriously pissed off at this guy for killing men who had honorably served their country, simply because they were gay.

“Anyways, we set up a room like was asked by Agent Jareau, with white boards and stuff. The coffee pot is over there, and the bathroom is around that corner.” He paused, “I was hoping that there’d be more of you.”

“Some of our team went to the latest and abduction and dump sites. I was actually hoping you could show me where the medical examiner’s office is, while Sheppard gets started with cross referencing the victims.” Spencer looked over at Sheppard, who nodded in agreement.

“Uh, sure, no problem, follow me.” Salazar waved his hand to him, and headed out of the room. Spencer turned back to Sheppard briefly, and looked at him momentarily. Sheppard gave him a bitter smile, and pulled out his phone.

“Go ahead, I’ve got a phone call to make.”

Spencer nodded back to him, and followed the detective out of the room. “Is the ME located nearby?”

“Yeah, she’s in the basement. Why do you need to talk to her?” Salazar asked as they got onto the elevator. 

“The more we can learn about the unsub and how he treat’s his victim’s the more we learn about him. And the more we learn about the victim’s the more we learn about the unsub.”

“Unsub?”

“Unknown subject, what you typically refer to as our suspect or killer.”

“Mostly I just call him a sick son of a bitch.” Salazar commented dryly.

“That too.” Spencer responded equally dryly, exiting the elevator and heading to the coroner’s office.

***

Walking back into the conference room, Spencer noticed that Sheppard was typing something into the computer, and that his cell phone was on the table next to him, “How about now, Garcia?” 

“Okay, yes, that’s better. What do you need me to run?” Garcia’s voice came over the speaker phone.

“I sent you some information on Orsini’s background, as far as I know it, could you run it against the other victim’s and see what matches up?”

“Sure thing, I’ll get back to you, quick as can be.”

“Hey Garcia-” Spencer began, but was cut off.

“Is that my tall glass of genius in the room?”

“Uh.” Spencer stammered, while Sheppard merely offered him an amused smirk. “Yes, anyway, did you find any other victims for the missing dates?”

“Two so far, I gave them to Colonel hot stuff over there, I’ll keep looking though.”

“Thanks, Garcia.”

“You are welcome my compadres, Garcia out.”

Sheppard looked over at Spencer, “Is she always like that?”

“Yes.” Spencer sighed. “Who are our two newest victims?”

“Luis Lopez, killed November of 2007 at the age of 32. Former Army Sergeant, received an medical discharge in ’03. He is survived by his husband and their two year old adopted daughter. His body was found in the small town of Truckton, Colorado south of the city. Our second identified victim is Chief Petty Officer Joseph Lind, Navy Corpsman, stationed at Cheyenne Mountain, killed March of 2009 at age 31. He was found in Ellicott, Colorado. Both had been cut precisely 1,000 times, and branded, before being stabbed through the heart.” Sheppard sighed, and rubbed the back of his neck. “You find anything out?”

“Just that our unsub is definitely a sadist. He starved them while they were held and they were all dehydrated. He cut in some of the most sensitive and tender areas of the body, like the inner thighs and back of the knees; but made sure to avoid anywhere that would bleed heavily, like the wrists or neck. He took his time too, probably most of the two days was spent on the cuts, which are almost identical in spacing length and shape. The ME says the stab wounds were most likely made with a bowie knife.”

Sheppard hummed, and looked at the images of the cuts, “You know, he didn’t have to take anywhere near as long as he did to cut them up. A person could cut them this much in a couple of hours, if they wanted to. Any restraints?”

“The victims were restrained with their arms and legs spread. Probably restrained upright, since they’re cut on both their front and backsides. They didn’t show any signs of having been gagged.” Spencer informed him.

“What about a blindfold?”

“They couldn’t tell, it was inconclusive.” Spencer paused, “But based on the meticulous nature of this unsub, it is highly likely.”

“He’d do it for the psychological torture if nothing else. Having a victim in pain, horrified for two days is one thing. Having him terrified with no idea of where or when the next cut is coming- he’d really get off on that.” Sheppard pointed out.

“Get off on what?” Morgan asked walking in with Prentiss.

“We were theorizing that the unsub likely uses a blindfold- to keep the victim in suspense.” Spencer informed them.

“Probably, this guy definitely likes to terrify them. He grabbed Orsini on his way out of the neighborhood grocery late at night. From the video we saw, it looks like the unsub stalked and spooked him in the parking lot, then herded him to where he wanted him to go, and knocked him out from behind, and took him to a van or something.” Morgan explained.

“There was only one guy?” Spencer questioned.

“We had the video sent to Garcia for further analysis, but there was only one unsub that we could tell- just an extremely well organized one. We couldn’t tell how he overpowered the victim though, so I’m hoping Garcia can clear up that part.” Prentiss told them.

“The ME didn’t find any drugs, or chloroform in their system, and they weren’t struck on the head.” Spencer told them. “It is possible that they were given something that metabolized quickly, however.”

“I’m having Garcia cross-reference their background’s, see if any of them had more in common than being gay and in the military. I started with childhoods, since I know Orsini grew up in the system after his mom OD’d. Then went on to extracurricular activities during school, what their duties were during their service, et cetera.” Sheppard told them, then he paused, “I also warned Garcia to leave anything classified alone, if we need more of that information I can call a contact and get it legally, we don’t need your analyst in Gitmo for violation of the Patriot Act.” 

Morgan just stared at Sheppard in horror, while Prentiss snorted and shook her head. 

“Still doing the big, dangerous and secretive thing, huh Shep?” she asked, looking amused. 

“You know it.”

“Big, dangerous and secretive?” Rossi asked as he and JJ walked in.

“The story of my life, Rossi. What’d you guys find out?” Sheppard changed the subject.

“This guy definitely doesn’t think much of his victims, he basically just threw the body away like trash. He left Orsini in the dumpster of a MacDonald’s, but the dumpster isn’t in a visible area, and there are no cameras. But he also wanted the body found pretty quickly, he didn’t even try to cover it up.” JJ told them, wrinkling her nose at the memory. 

“So what have we got then?” Rossi prompted.

“He targets former or current military members who were most likely homosexual, I have Garcia running backgrounds to see if there are any other similarities. I’m also trying to figure out just how he’s identifying his victims- active duty men who are closeted, don’t go around sharing that sort of information.” Sheppard began.

“The unsub enjoys torturing them psychologically when he captures them, spooking them, and getting their adrenaline up before subduing them, according to the latest abduction. I’m checking to see if any of the other abductions were recorded, to see if we can confirm that.” Morgan continued.

“He chooses isolated abduction sites at night, where the victims go frequently, places they’re familiar with and would feel comfortable in.” Prentiss told them.

“He takes his time cutting his victims, most of the two days are spent slowly cutting them. Although he could do the same damage in far less time. His cuts are meticulous- evenly spaced, same location on each body, almost identical in length. They were sloppier and more hesitant on the first victims, then he gained confidence. Sheppard and I theorize that he blindfolds his victims to keep the suspense up- so they never know when or where they’ll be cut next. He also most likely restrains his victims upright, with their wrists and legs spread apart. The victims are kept starved and dehydrated to weaken them, and their heads are shaved- likely to demean them.” Spencer informed them.

“The victims are held for almost exactly 48 hours before being branded with a cross and then killed with a single stab wound through the heart. He then takes the body to another location, late at night, and puts them in a dumpster at a restaurant.” JJ frowned.

“He chooses the dump site ahead of time- it’s a location where no one will be able to see him dump the body, and he knows that the body will be found fairly quickly the next morning, when the restaurant opens the next morning.” Rossi concluded.

“He’s highly organized, almost obsessively so, and this will be reflected in every aspect of his life.” Morgan pointed out.

“He doesn’t want to be identified- he has something to lose, most likely a family.” Prentiss continued. “He’s cautious, and concerned with appearances.”

“And while he will closely observe the news and follow the investigation, he won’t insert himself into it, like many unsubs do.” Rossi sighed.

“He had a second stressor recently- until this last month he’s been in control of his urges, following a strict timetable. But all of a sudden he just halved his time between kills, and for this type of unsub there is definitely a reason for that.” Spencer tilted his head to the side. “I’m going to get started on the geographic profile, see if that helps.”

“Alright, JJ, talk to the cops, try and make sure this doesn’t leak to the press yet, I want to keep this as under wraps as possible. This is definitely a guy who will run if he feels us closing in. Morgan, call Garcia and see if she has anything on the victim backgrounds or more victims yet. Sheppard, check with Salazar- see where the local gay bars, clubs and hangouts are at, we’ll canvas them, see if we can connect any of our victims that way. Prentiss, keep cross referencing their habits- where the victims grocery shopped, worked out, ate out at, anything you can think of to see if there’s a common link. I’ll help you when I get back, but at the moment I’m starving, and I imagine the rest of you aren’t much better. I’m going to go grab us all something to eat- Chinese good with you guys?”

The rest of them nodded there agreements and then separated to get to work on their assignments. In the background Spencer could hear Morgan talking to Garcia on the phone, and noticed him pinning up another photo and writing a new name on the board. 

“Another victim?” He asked.

“Yeah, Air Force Lieutenant Thomas Hartley, age 25. He was stationed at Peterson, went missing in November 2008 while walking his dog, who was later found wandering by neighbors trailing her leash. He was found three days later in Peyton, Colorado behind the local diner. Same MO- starved, shaved, given 1,000 cuts, branded and stabbed through the heart.” Morgan shook his head. “That makes eighteen victims this bastard’s killed, eighteen heroes dead at the hands of this psycho.”

“Did Garcia find anything in common in their backgrounds? Childhoods, extracurricular activities, professions, anything?” Spencer asked. The door to the conference room opened and Sheppard walked back in.

“I’ve got a list of local clubs, bars and businesses that are connected to the LGBT community. Plus one of the detectives gave me a website to check out for more resources.” Sheppard paused looking amused, “He also gave me his phone number, but I don’t think that’s relevant to the case.”

Morgan snorted in amusement, and Spencer grinned. “No, I don’t really think it would be.” 

Emily let out a bite of laughter, “I see you’ve still got it Shep.”

“Hey, I don’t hit on them! It… just happens.”

“And you never see it coming.” She shook her head with a grin.

“Well, yeah.” Sheppard said, perplexed. “I mean, were in the middle of a serial murder case, and he gives me his number! It’s not like I have time to go on a date. This is almost as weird as that time with Mara.”

Morgan and Prentiss were both amused, and Spencer had to admit he was as well, how could a man as attractive as Sheppard not realize his appeal to others?

“Mara?” Morgan asked.

“Yeah, she was a princess or something who decided that the best way to secure her place to the throne was to convince me to marry her by stripping naked and climbing into my bed without telling me.” Sheppard told them distractedly, sounding a bit put out.

Spencer immediately burst into laughter, the image was hysterical. Morgan too was laughing loudly at the idea. Prentiss shook her head and chuckled. “So basically she did the same thing Gina did? You walk into your room to find her laying naked on your bed?”

Looking up from the computer, Sheppard made a face at Prentiss. “Basically. But Gina wasn’t caught up in a bunch of castle intrigue that involved Mara’s brother and lover conspiring to kill the King, so that the brother would ascend to the throne, allow Mara and the lower class lover to get married, and then the lover would get the brother arrested and/or killed so he could take over.” Sheppard rolled his eyes, “Sometimes my life feels like a really corny soap opera.”

They were all in hysterics now, Sheppard’s life really did seem like a soap opera. “Did you sleep with her?” Morgan asked when they finally caught their breath.

“No. She wasn’t my type.” Sheppard replied simply, causing Prentiss to crack up again, and Sheppard to make another face at her. Morgan raised an eyebrow inquisitively, but they both ignored him.

“An-y-way,” Morgan drawled out, “I talked to Garcia, she couldn’t find any real connections in our victims past. Orsini was a foster kid, as was Rim and Turner grew up in an orphanage. Fitzgerald and Benjamin were from one parent homes, due to their mother and father’s deaths respectively; while Carter, Shaughnessy, Lopez, Gantry and Lind came from families with divorced parents; and the rest grew up in two parent households. Most of their families were of middle class backgrounds, some from urban areas, others rural. Johns grew up in the slums of Detroit, Lewis in the slums of New York; while English was a trust fund kid.

“Looking at their school records, most were decent students, no real trouble-makers. A couple of them had bar brawls or public intoxication on their records, nothing that stands out. Most of them played some sort of sport during school, and Lind actually got a football scholarship to Notre Dame, but the sports varied. A few played football, some basketball, a few played baseball, one played hockey. English used to be pretty competitive in the Hunter/ Jumper circuits, apparently.” Morgan looked a bit confused as to what that was.

“Horseback riding,” Prentiss interrupted, and a dawning look appeared on Morgan’s face. 

“But they had no real crossover. She hasn’t cross-referenced what they did in the military yet. What do you have on their later lives Prentiss?”

“Not much, they were mostly normal guys who did normal guy things. Most were single, but Hernandez, Johnson, Russo, Lopez, Turner and Fitzgerald were all in long term relationships- either domestic partnerships or they’d gotten married in Canada. Orsini was in a committed relationship apparently, as was Shaughnessy. English and Rim were pretty well known as players who had a different guy every night. Several of the younger guys went clubbing or to gay bars fairly frequently, but Carter was a homebody, as was Hartley. The older victims were known to go out for drinks with buddies or to the local rec center, where apparently Hernandez used to kick butt at bunko. But nothing that stands out yet.”

“How’s it going?” JJ asked as she walked in.

“Nowhere, no real crossover yet. Did you, uh, talk to the officers about keeping everything quiet?” Spencer asked.

“I stressed the fact that leaking the story to the media at this point would most likely cause the unsub to go underground and move somewhere else, but some of them looked pretty disbelieving. I just hope they keep their mouths shut for the time being.” JJ sighed and rubbed her forehead. “So nothing new?”

“Just another new victim.” Morgan jerked his head at the board, “We’re up to eighteen now.”

JJ just sighed again and went to look at the boards. “Why would anyone do this?”

Spencer opened his mouth to start explaining the complex combination of biology, psychology and environment that likely contributed to the unsub’s need for power and control as well as his obsessive ritual and unique psychopathy, but stopped when he felt a hand on his forearm. Looking up he saw it was Sheppard’s hand, and the man merely shook his head at Spencer, mouthing the word ‘rhetorical’. Spencer blinked, and then ducked his head.

Focusing on his geographical profile, he lost himself in inputting the data- the abduction and dump sites for each victim, trying to find the unsub’s comfort zone. Trying to “connect the dots” so to speak and see if a pattern emerged. The hum of familiar voices in the background soothed him, providing a gentle soundtrack to the madness of life. Before he could finish inputting the data, he was interrupted as the smell of food came into the conference room, along with the bustling presence of Rossi.

“Dinner is served!” Rossi exclaimed, laying out Chinese food cartons and boxes. With a smile, Spencer pushed his map to the side, grabbing a fork and a paper plate. The room seemed to pause for a bit, as the table was cleared of case files and information, and replaced with the delectable smells of cheap, greasy Chinese takeout. 

The sounds of people eating replaced the discussion of the grisly murders, and conversation turned to happier topics. As the food disappeared, the case took precedence again with the team. Discussion ranged over a myriad of possibilities, but they all knew that until they could figure out how the unsub was finding his victims, they would be unable to find the unsub.

They tossed ideas back and forth as to his motivations, and why he chose the targets he did. Why he had such a specific in depth ritual, and why he had suddenly sped up his timeline as the day drew to a close. But they all knew that until they could find what connected the victims, beyond their military background and sexuality, that they wouldn’t find anything. Garcia had checked in and informed them that she was still cross-referencing the victims daily routines, but that so far nothing of note had popped up. As the night became later, and the hours waned, exhaustion began to set in.

Finally Rossi let out a sigh and rubbed his eyes, “Alright, that’s enough for tonight. We’ve been going practically non-stop since Canada. Reid’s wounded, and we all look like we’re about to collapse. I’m calling it a night, it’s almost midnight, and it isn’t likely that this guy will be striking anytime in the next few days. Let’s head to the hotel and get some shut-eye. We’ll meet back here at eight. And Garcia.”

“Yes my liege?” Came Garcia’s disembodied voice from the speaker the PD had given them to use.

“That means you too. Go home and get some rest, in your actual bed.”

“Alright then- a good night my fair and noble knights and ladies, I bid thee adieu.”

“Good night Garcia.”

“Night Penelope.”

“Talk to you tomorrow sweet-cheeks.” Came the voices from around the table. The phone clicked off from Garcia’s end, and the team gathered up their belongings.

Heading out of the conference room the Colorado PD had set up for them, they ran across Detective Salazar, who was working on paperwork in his office.

“You guys heading out?” he asked, looking up and rubbing a hand across his eyes.

“Yeah, not much more we can do tonight.” Morgan spoke up, “We’ll pick back up again in the morning.”

“Sure,” the detective agreed tiredly, “What hotel are you guys staying at? I can have someone show you the way there.” He looked down at his paperwork and made a face, “I’d do it myself, but I have to play catch up.”

“Thanks, we appreciate it. We’re staying at the Hampton off of Geyser Drive? It was the closest hotel to the station.” JJ told him.

Spencer noticed Sheppard blink in surprise, and then an amused look passed over his face. Curious, Spencer leaned towards Sheppard, “What’s so amusing?”

“I actually know where that is, I lived there for about six weeks back in ’06 when I had a TDA at Cheyenne Mountain.” Sheppard whispered back.

“Huh.” Was all that Spencer said in reply, as Salazar had already waved a hand at a nearby officer (Scott, according to his nametag) and was instructing him to lead the team to the hotel.

Shuffling behind the burly officer, the team piled into the two SUVs, Morgan at the helm of one, Rossi the other; and headed out of the PD’s parking lot. Luckily it was a short drive to the hotel, since Spencer could feel the exhaustion slowly seeping into his bones, and knew it would only be a matter of time before he fell asleep in the car.

Shortly they pulled up the drive of the hotel, and unloaded there bags. Heading to the front desk, JJ checked them all in and grabbed their room keys to distribute. Together they piled into the elevator, and headed up to the fourth floor. With a grin of relief, Spencer slid his key card into the door, and opened up his hotel room. He tossed his bag onto one of the beds, and grabbed a pair of pajamas out of it. Changing clothes, he’d discovered, was very awkward when one was on crutches. A few minutes later he let out a sigh as he slipped between the covers of his bed and turned out the light. Within minutes he was sound asleep.

***

May 29, 2009

Spencer let out a sigh of relief, he always felt better after a hot shower. Peeling off the plastic bag wrapped around his knee, he ran a warm wash cloth over it, wincing as he did- being shot hurt. Pulling out his clothes from his go bag, he grimaced as he pulled on his pants, wishing he could take some real pain medicine, but knowing what a bad idea that would be; and instead swallowing a couple of acetaminophen. He was tying his tie when there was a knock on his door.

Frowning, he grabbed his crutches and pulled open the door, wondering which of his teammates would be knocking at seven in the morning. Seeing Morgan standing on the other side, he merely raised an eyebrow. Morgan offered him a grin, “Come on, Pretty Boy, Garcia wants to talk to us, we’re meeting in my room.”

With a sigh and an eye-roll, Spencer turned and grabbed his bag and room key off the dresser, before limping after Morgan. Entering Morgan’s room, he noticed that the rest of the team was already there, in varying stages of dress. Prentiss did not look happy to be standing there in her pajamas.

“What’s going on Morgan?” She demanded, “I was just about to get into the shower.”

“Where’s Colonel Sheppard?” JJ asked curiously, “If Garcia found something out, he needs to hear it too.”

“I asked my love not to include him in the meeting since, well, I have been doing some research-” Garcia’s image popped up on the computer screen that Morgan had set up on the dresser. Spencer sat down on the bed, and noticed that the rest of the team did the same.

“Research on what, Penelope?” Rossi raised an eyebrow.

“The good Colonel, and, like are we sure he’s a good guy?” Garcia babbled, “Because, seriously, reading his background is like reading ‘How to Make an Unsub 101’ and you guys are my family, and I want you to be safe. I mean, the amount of awards he has is seriously impressive, but anybody can pretend to be a good guy, and I want to make sure he isn’t actually a psycho.”

“Garcia, Baby Girl, I haven’t seen any signs that Sheppard is pretending to be anything. He seems like a genuinely good guy, if a bit quiet.” Morgan interrupted Garcia’s stream of babble.

“I’ve spent several hours with him Garcia, he doesn’t appear to have any psychosis or personality disorders. Maybe a bit of PTSD, but that isn’t unexpected from an active duty soldier.” Spencer attempted to calm her.

“Are you sure, because his background is seriously sad and twisted? The guy’s listed in two BAU files before the age of ten.” She seemed to be calming down.

“I know that, Garcia, I was the case agent on the second case. Gideon was the first one.” Rossi told her, voice bland. “You might as well share his background with the rest of the team. He was a sweet kid, and I am curious as to what happened to him after I met him.” 

“He expected you to look him up Garcia, remember? He commented that ‘for some people, trauma is what strengthens them. In others, it breaks them,’ when we were in your office.” Spencer pointed out.

“Out of suffering have emerged the strongest souls; the most massive characters are seared with scars.” Rossi quoted.

“Kahlil Gibran,” Prentiss muttered.

“Well if that’s true, John Sheppard is like, the strongest soul in existence.” Garcia replied. “Okay, so I did some digging, and little Johnny Sheppard’s life seriously makes me want to go back in time and give him a hug. He was born on June 14, 1974 in Holbrook, Virginia to the extremely well-to-do Patrick and Rivka Sheppard, nee Berlinski; with one older brother, David, born April 17, 1967. At first glance they seem like the perfect little socialite family- Patrick owned a local utilities company that employed, like half the county; Rivka volunteered regularly, and was on the board of a lot of charity organizations; the family went to church every Sunday, and Rivka and the boys also attended the local synagogue every Friday evening. But when you dig a little bit deeper, the pretty story unravels.” Garcia paused. 

“Baby Girl?” Morgan inquired.

“Sorry, it’s just that, okay, I get it was the sixties and seventies, but that is no excuse, and-”

“Garcia,” Morgan interrupted again.

“Right, if you look beneath the pretty cover story, what you get is a whole lot of hospital visits. Rivka Sheppard was in the hospital between 1965, when she married Patrick, and 1980; a total of 81 times for broken bones, bruises, cuts, and what is obviously sexual assault. She also had four different miscarriages between David and John’s births, and two after John was born. David Sheppard also appeared in the hospital a grand total of 34 times before his thirteenth birthday with a similar pattern of abuse, and little Johnny had 19 hospital visits by the time he was six. However, according to hospital reports, the entire family was just clumsy.” Garcia was obviously steaming mad, “The abuse was overlooked because, according to my investigative digging, every time his wife or kids ended up in the hospital, Patrick Sheppard made a sizeable donation.”

“Christ,” JJ muttered under her breath, rubbing a tired hand over her eyes.

“And then things got worse.” Garcia’s was outraged. “On July 28, 1980; the esteemed Patrick Robert Sheppard snapped. He managed to somehow get his hands on an assault rifle, and proceeded to gun down his entire staff at home- the gardener, two stable hands, the maid, housekeeper, butler, cook and nanny. He then, for some reason, changed it up and beat his wife and David to death with a baseball bat, and little Johnny into a coma, apparently thinking that he too was dead. According to Gideon’s interview of Patrick Sheppard, six-year-old Johnny was forced to watch his father kill his nanny, mother and older brother, in that order; before he was beaten into a coma.” Garcia paused.

“I remember that case, I did a report on it when I was in the academy,” Spencer exclaimed. “After killing his family, Patrick Sheppard then went on a spree throughout the city, killing eighteen more, and wounding seven. He then went to his company headquarters, and killed another forty-three people before police were able to subdue him. He killed a total of seventy-one people on his spree.”

“Yeah, and it was considered a miracle that little Johnny wasn’t one of them. Apparently when local police arrived at the Sheppard family mansion, they thought everyone was dead at first, and then one of the officers noticed that John was still breathing. They were all shocked, because of the amount of blood. John was rushed to the local hospital, where he apparently stopped breathing twice, and was put on a ventilator. According to the medical reports, they basically had to reconstruct part of John Sheppard’s skull where it had almost been caved in, and his prognosis wasn’t good. His primary doctor actually wrote on the file that if John survived he’d most likely be a vegetable. Local newspapers followed his recovery pretty closely, and when he woke up from the coma after two months there was apparently a huge celebration. Especially when the doctors found that he was perfectly fine mentally.”

“They called it a miraculous recovery,” Rossi commented, “Called him a miracle child- that it was ‘a dream come true’ he’d survived.”

“Yeah,” Garcia agreed, “Unfortunately for Johnny Sheppard, the nightmare was just beginning.”

“It got worse?” JJ’s voice was bleak.

“So much worse, Jaje.” Garcia said sadly. “Little Johnny was now an orphan, but he was also the heir to a Fortune 500 utilities company- Sheppard Industries; and relatives and potential guardians magically appeared out of thin air. Unfortunately, social services didn’t do a whole lot of checking out of the potential placements, and Johnny was placed in seventeen different homes between October of 1980 and August 1982. The only good thing was that his social worker was fond of surprise inspections and checked up on him regularly. According to the social services reports, he was removed from six of those homes due to physical abuse, one due to neglect, three due to sexual abuse and seven of them requested he be removed from their homes because, like most traumatized kids, Johnny acted out. The only good thing that happened in those two years was that John Sheppard was spared from testifying against his father, because Patrick Sheppard agreed to plead guilty if the death penalty was taken off the table.”

“Fucking hell,” Morgan rubbed the bridge of his nose. “And the guy’s still sane.”

Spencer was morose, normally, with that amount of trauma, they were looking at their unsub, not at a man they’d all met and become friendly with. Sheppard was a strong man to have survived that amount of trauma, and walked out the other side intact.

“Interestingly enough, one of the home’s he was removed from due to sexual abuse was Karen Sheppard’s, his aunt by marriage. We met her back on a case in 2006, when her son, Caleb “Dale” Sheppard was robbing banks in Los Angeles, and forcing his hostages to strip and simulate sex when he did.” Garcia commented with a grossed out look on her face.

“The Stripping Bandit,” Spencer remembered, “That was Sheppard’s cousin?”

“Yep, older cousin by three years, social services was unable to find enough evidence to remove either Dale, or his sister Linda, from her custody; but were able to pull John from the house.” Garcia sighed and shook her head. “Anyway, back to little Johnny, after his placement in seventeen other homes, social services apparently thought they’d found the perfect home for Johnny, with his Great Aunt in Ohio. She appeared to be an upstanding member of the community, volunteered at local youth centers and soup kitchens, went to church regularly. She was a retired high school teacher and apparently an avid gardener by all reports. She was wealthy, so social services assumed she wasn’t after little Johnny’s money.”

“Which is where I met him,” Rossi commented. “Garcia, if you haven’t opened up that file yet, I wouldn’t do so now.”

“Unfortunately, it is too late for that, Agent Rossi, and I have already opened the file, seen the evidence photos and vomited. However, I will allow you to tell the rest of our super friends precisely what was in the file, because I am going to go to my happy place now.” Garcia told him resolutely.

The team looked over at Rossi, who sighed and told them bitterly, “Unfortunately for the then eight-year-old Johnny, the Great Aunt social services was so keen to place him with was Edith Aston.” 

Spencer turned green, and he heard Morgan turn and punch the wall. Prentiss actually ran to the bathroom, and they could hear the sound of vomiting coming from within, and Spencer remembered that the two of them were, if not friends, at least close acquaintances. JJ however was obviously confused.

“Who’s Edith Aston?” she asked.

“She’s one of the few well documented female sexual sadistic serial killers, she has more than 80 known victims.” Spencer told her, surprised at the deadened sound of his own voice. JJ’s face took on a horrified appearance. 

“She was also a preferential pedophile,” Morgan was furious, “Her preference was eight to eleven year old boys, with dark hair.”

JJ’s face was horror-struck, “But Colonel Sheppard,” she stuttered.

“Was exactly her type,” Rossi finished. He shook his head. “The BAU was contacted when local police found the bodies of three young boys buried in the local woods. The oldest body had been there approximately ten years, the most recent grave for about a year. The only reason they’d been discovered was that a local flood had spread through the area.” Rossi began the story.

“They searched that area pretty thoroughly, and turned up eleven more bodies. All of them were young boys, one of them missing for over twenty years. They identified eight of the bodies as boys who had been abducted from across the United States, and we were called in to consult. It was one of my very first solo cases, and I still have nightmares from it.” Rossi told them.

“All of the bodies showed extensive signs of torture, and I assumed we were looking for a man. The profile was spot on, except for the fact that we were actually looking for a woman. Unfortunately, the case was pretty well publicized, and the fact that we were looking for a man was well known, and left Aston feeling comfortable that she wouldn’t be discovered.

“She dumped he latest victim, ten year old Jeremy Collins from Arizona, in another area of the woods as a taunt to the police. When we searched that area, we found another sixteen bodies. We assumed the unsub would be on the hunt for a new victim, since, based on what evidence we had, she’d keep the victim for three to six months before killing them and finding a new boy. What we didn’t know was that the unsub already had a boy that fit her preferences at hand.

“I remained in Ohio for three months before we caught a break, there was no DNA analysis to uncover things in those days, and we only had a partial print to go on. The break was that Johnny Sheppard’s social worker had done a surprise inspection, and the boy was nowhere to be found.” Rossi sighed and rubbed his eyes.

“Local police reports showed that no one had reported Johnny as missing, and we all found that as suspicious. We checked the local elementary school, and his teacher told us that Johnny had been pulled out of school two and a half months before by his aunt who had said she was homeschooling him due to the fact that he had been struggling. But we did some digging, and she’d never reported the change of status to the local school board, or filed any transcripts. We also checked at her church, and Johnny had been pulled out of Sunday school, and the priest hadn’t seen him in two and a half months either; although Aston had continued to attend services. Apparently she’d told them that Johnny had been removed from her care, and placed with another relative.” Rossi’s face was haunted.

“I took the profile, and applied it to Aston, and every single part of it matched. The only part that didn’t was that she was a woman. We got a warrant, and arrested her when she was at the supermarket. Then we went to search her house- when police arrived at her house, they’d brought search dogs on my recommendation, and before we got halfway up the lawn one of the dogs went nuts. We found a fresh grave, and we all feared the worst, but facial reconstruction showed that the boy wasn’t Johnny. We tore that house apart, and still couldn’t find the kid, but we had her on the murder of the other boy. Finally, after two days, a search of her financials turned up an old abandoned factory at the edge of town that was in her late husband’s name. We raided the place, and what we found will haunt me for the rest of my life.

“The floor was literally coated in blood, and the walls were covered with instruments of torture. Johnny was hung suspended naked from the ceiling, strappado style.” Rossi demonstrated, “His shoulders were completely dislocated. He was emaciated, and covered in bruises, burns and cuts. He was gagged and blind-folded, and several of his ribs were obviously broken. He’d been tortured for months, and to be honest we all thought he was dead, there were flies and other insects buzzing about, feasting on him.” Rossi’s voice broke.

The entire team looked about ready to break, and JJ and Prentiss both had tears running down their cheeks. Morgan had his eyes closed, and Spencer was trying not to cry himself.

“I’ll never forget when we realized he was alive,” Rossi continued after a pause, lost in the memory. “All of a sudden, there was this little whimper- and one of the officers shouted ‘He’s alive! Get the medics!’ We all rushed forward, and I held him up while one of the other officers cut him down. We pulled off the blindfold and gag, and wrapped him in a blanket. He was unconscious, but I just held him in my lap and rocked him back and forth, humming. Johnny was in the hospital for six weeks recovering, they kept him in a medically induced coma for the first three weeks. I visited every day until I was recalled to Quantico. I heard that eventually, social services placed him with his grandparents, Tom and Faigel Berlinski, who had been petitioning for custody of him since his mother had died. Social services had denied them custody due to their age, and their lack of wealth, assuming that they were after John’s inheritance.” Rossi finished. 

The room was silent for several minutes, absorbing the story. “Things got better after that, right?” JJ asked eventually.

“Thank god, yes.” Garcia told them, “The Berlinski’s should honestly be given awards for how awesome they were. They recognized that Johnny would be seriously traumatized and not very trusting, and didn’t care. They took him in officially in February of 1983, and their financial records show that he first thing they did was find a local child psychiatrist who specialized in severe trauma. Johnny attended therapy every day for the next four years, and then visits slowly petered down to once a week, and then stopped when he was sixteen. 

“His school records show an obviously troubled kid, but his grandparents never gave up on him, he apparently had a tutor in language arts and history in third and fourth grade, but early in fifth grade he was put briefly into special education. His grandparents fought the decision, and had Johnny tested for learning disabilities, where it was discovered that, and I quote, ‘John Sheppard is an extremely intelligent boy with severe dyslexia and ADD/ADHD. He displays hypercalculia, and a mathematical ability on par with the average college senior. He has minor alexithymia, and is extremely well adjusted for the amount of trauma he has suffered in his life, displaying a large amount of empathy, and has stated a desire to help and protect people when he grows up. His IQ was evaluated to be 189, and it is not recommended that he be placed in special education at this time. It is recommended that he be given remedial reading education, and accelerated learning, due to frequent boredom in class.’ The Berlinski’s then pulled him out of the local public school, because they refused to meet John’s educational needs, and enrolled him in the local Montessori school.”

Garcia had a far more pleased look on her face and the team relaxed as she continued, and Rossi was smiling, “He continued on at his new school, earning excellent grades, and proceeded to hopscotch through grade levels like Reid did, graduating high school at fifteen, and attending the local Stanford University. He received degrees in both mathematics and aerospace engineering at seventeen, and earned his master’s in mathematics at eighteen. He enlisted in the Air Force on his nineteenth birthday, and went on to flight school as soon as he finished OTS. Over the course of his Air Force career, he has served on every continent as a pilot, and most of his service is extremely classified. I do know that he successfully completed Test Pilot School, and is noted as one of the top ranked pilots in the US. He has had a couple of disciplinary issues, apparently he doesn’t do well with authority figures, but nothing too noteworthy.’ Garcia paused, and seemed to be reading something, “Let’s see, he was promoted to Colonel last month, when- OMG, he was also presented with the Medal of Honor.”

“He earned the Medal of Honor?” Morgan exclaimed in shock, “What did- how did he earn that?”

“The report doesn’t say, it’s like, super top secret classified. I can’t tell you what he’s been doing for most of the last five years, only that he was earning every kind of hazard pay in existence. Actually, that’s been most of his military career. I can tell you that over the course of his career he’s earned, in ascending order of importance (not including the small stuff)- the Air Force Commendation Medal, three Aerial Achievement Medals, two Air Medals, the Meritorious Service Medal, a Defense Meritorious Service Medal, eight Purple Hearts, two Bronze Stars, a Distinguished Flying Cross, a Legion of Merit, the Silver Star, the Air Force Distinguished Service Medal, an Air Force Cross and the Medal of Honor. Plus, like a boatload of campaign medals, UN and NATO medals, lesser awards, and foreign medals; talk about your real-life hero.”

Garcia was in a good bit of shock, and the rest of the team wasn’t that far behind. “Oh and he’s been a POW at least three times, most recently back in August of 2006. Although he was also noted as being MIA for 12 days in March of 2008, which, unsurprisingly, was not his first stint at being MIA, but rather his fourth. His longest stint as a POW was in 2002-2003, and lasted for six months. Unfortunately exactly where he was POW or MIA, is completely off the table and blacked out, it’s just a list of capture/missing dates, and recovery dates.”

“But he’s okay?” Rossi asked, concerned.

“According to his evaluations, ‘Colonel Sheppard has proved to be an extremely resilient man, easily able to withstand questioning by the enemy.’ That is unsurprising given his childhood. That was the only portion of the report that I was able to read. I can’t access his later medical records, they are also super duper classified, for some reason.”

“Looking at his financials, I can tell you that he pretty much ignores his income from Sheppard Industries, and leaves the running of the company in the hands of the board of directors. He currently has a small apartment he’s renting near Fairchild AFB, where he’s temporarily assigned, and in the last five years, his purchases are pretty amusing. In 2005, he bought a surfboard, a set of golf clubs and a whole lot of golf balls, some candles, a centrifuge, a boatload of coffee and chocolate- and nothing else for like a year before that or after that. In 2006 he stayed in a hotel in Colorado Springs for six weeks, bought a lot of junk food and takeout, and a big screen TV, then in late 2007/ early 2008, he spent several months having baby gear shipped to wherever he was stationed. And by baby gear, I mean basically every single baby supply available online. He bought a lot of tourist stuff in San Francisco and Colorado Springs this January and February, and lots of kid toys in March. All of that was purchased with his pay from the Air Force, and other than that his financials are clean.”

“The baby gear and kid toys were for his godson, Garcia. He told us that he’d turned one in March.” Spencer told her.

“Awww!” Garcia cooed. “Anything else anyone wants to know?”

“Where are his grandparent’s now?” Rossi asked, “I met them when they came to the hospital, and his grandmother sent me a picture of him once, when he was thirteen at his Bar Mitzvah. She was a lovely woman.”

“Gimme a minute,” Garcia muttered, “Okay, Tom Berlinski was born in New York City, 1920. He was a Captain in the Army Air Corps during World War Two, a bombardier to be precise. He later worked as an engineer for the city. He had one daughter, Rivka, born September 20, 1946 and two grandsons. He died of a heart attack October 2, 1993. John was nineteen. Faigel Berlinski, nee Shapiro, was born in Budapest, Hungary in 1920. She married Moishe Kowalski in 1936, and they had three children- Dovid, Yonatan, and Raisa. In 1941 the family was, oh God, taken by the Nazi’s to Dachau, where the three children were killed and Moishe and Faigel were separated- Moishe was sent on to Auschwitz immediately, where he was killed in 1943, according to records; while Faigel remained in Dachau for another month before also being sent to Auschwitz, she remained there for over a year before she was transferred to Buna in mid-1942. She remained there until the camps few survivors were marched to Buchenwald, where she was liberated in April of 1945. She gained passage to America in May of 1945, where she met Tom Berlinski. The two fell in love and got married in August of 1945. She was an author, and wrote several books detailing her life as a child and under Nazi rule. She passed away in her sleep in April of 2003.” 

“That’s too bad, I’d have loved to see her again.” Rossi commented.

The team was silent, lost in their thoughts, thinking of the horrific childhood one man had suffered, and the heroic adult he had become. Spencer’s thoughts kept going back to the Medal of Honor, wondering how many lives John Sheppard had saved, and what he had done to earn it. He knew that he’d probably never know, the event was extremely classified, but still he wondered. The entire team was startled when JJ’s watch started to beep.

“Uh, that’s my alarm telling me that it’s time to leave the hotel in order to get to the station on time. It’s already 7:45 guys.” She told them.

Prentiss swore, and rushed out of the room, obviously heading back to her own room in order to get dressed quickly. Morgan, shooed the rest of them out as well. The team exited the room, and headed down to the SUV’s. Heading to the parking lot Morgan, JJ and Rossi headed to the first SUV; while Spencer agreed to wait for Prentiss and Sheppard to come down. He waved as the three drove off, then checked his phone, surprised to see that someone had texted him.

“Headed to the station already, caught a ride from a patrol officer.” He read aloud. He didn’t recognize the number, but there was a second text from the same number. “This is Sheppard by the way.”

Prentiss came down the stairs, reading a text message as well. “Did you get the message from Sheppard too?” Spencer questioned, as they climbed into the car.

“Yeah,” she replied, “Did you notice the time he sent them?” her voice was amused.

“No, when?” he replied, already fishing his phone back out, looking at the time he blinked, “Who wakes up that early?”

“I have no idea, but don’t expect me to ever be that coherent at 5:30 in the morning.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thank you to my new beta Evelyna, who is awesome beyond words, and oh so very patient.

John sat at the conference room table, tapping his pen against the edge while he read through the military history reports. Beneath the images of the victims he’d already recorded their primary duties in the service. Shuffling the papers around, he tried to find some other way they might be similar to one another. Sighing he pushed the papers away from himself, there was nothing there. Not even in the classified files that some of the men had, their positions in the military crossed enlisted and officer ranks, they had served in over a dozen conflicts between them, they had been in every branch of the Armed Forces. Most of them had been ordinary soldiers doing ordinary jobs; and a few had been Special Forces. The only thing he could find linking them via their military service was that every victim had received either an honorable or a medical discharge.

He looked up at the footsteps and voices he could hear coming from outside the conference room. Recognizing Rossi’s voice, he relaxed. The door to the conference room opened and in walked Jareau, Morgan and Rossi. Rossi nodded at him and then settled in to one of the other chairs. Jareau and Morgan both seemed to hover at the edges of the conference room near the door, he could feel their eyes on him. Looking up he purposefully made eye contact with them both and raised an eyebrow. Jareau turned red and looked away briefly before pulling out a chair. Morgan, on the other hand, met his gaze with a raised brow of his own before nodding at him and also sitting down.

“How long have you been here, John?” Rossi asked him.

“I got here around 0545. Why?” John asked distractedly, as he compared Rim and English’s files before adding their similarities into his laptop.

“How many files have you been through?” Jareau asked, reaching forward to pick one up.

“All of these.” John replied, shooting out a hand to grab the file Jareau had reached for. “Don’t, a lot of these are highly classified, eyes only files. I doubt you have clearance for all of them Jareau.” Glancing at the cover of the file Jareau had been reaching for he frowned, and tucked it into the stack he had closest to him. Looking around he grabbed Johnson’s file and handed it to her instead. “There, that one you can read.”

Morgan and Rossi had both paused in reaching for files to stare at him incredulously. John ignored them both, and continued shifting through the files on the desk, grabbing a few more to add to his stack. “Okay, all sorted. The ones in the middle of the table don’t have any references to anything classified. You can read those.”

“Are you serious?” Morgan asked incredulously, looking at the very small pile of files remaining.

“Very. I’ve already been through all the files, every victim’s branch of the military, what conflicts they were involved in and their MOS is up on the board below their name. If they had a previous MOS it’s listed below their most recent one.”

The room paused briefly as Prentiss and Reid bustled in, and Rossi informed them that each of the men’s military branch, and duties was on the boards. The group looked up at the board, taking note of the messy scrawl beneath the victim’s names. With a sigh they all noticed that none of them were a match. After a moment, John noticed Jareau stand up and move over to Turner’s image. Curious he looked up, and saw her erase one of the letters in the word “Sniper”, and rewrite it. Embarrassed, John let out low groan, “I reversed the “p” didn’t I? Sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it man, no big deal.” Morgan told him nonchalantly.

Too nonchalantly, John thought. With a heavy sigh, John rubbed the back of his neck and leaned back to look at the ceiling, “You looked me up, didn’t you? Okay look, so I had a shitty childhood, lots of guys have. It’s not a big deal.”

John watched them all take in that statement, and could tell that a few of them wanted to argue with it, but luckily they were able to tell that he didn’t want to talk about it, or hell, think about it.

Rossi cleared his throat, and John turned to look at him, raising an eyebrow, “I don’t have anything to say about that kid, I already knew most of it. I just wanted to say, that I’m proud of you kid, you’ve done good.”

John could feel his ears and cheeks flush red, and rubbed the back of his neck, looking down at the table. “Uh, yeah, so.” He stuttered, before taking a deep breath, “I called a contact to do an in depth search of the victims records and see if there’s any crossover, she said she’d get back to me some time later today, but from what I’ve read in their files, the only similarities I’ve found between the victims is that they all received either an honorable or a medical discharge.”

Reid cleared his throat, “So there’s nothing new?”

Holding back a sigh of relief that they’d accepted the change in subject, John answered, “Unfortunately not.”

“Alright, we’ll all keep digging, see if we can find anything connecting the victims,” Rossi began, “This afternoon, we’ll canvas the local bars, see if we can’t find anything.”

With that, the group turned back to their papers and files, digging through the victim’s financials and memberships, anything they could find that might connect them. Hours passed as they flipped through file after file, lunch was consumed, Salazar came and went, and it was nearing dinner time when there was a knock on the door.

They all looked up as Salazar stuck his head in, “Hey, there’s some blonde lady out here saying that she’s looking for a Colonel Sheppard. I told her we don’t have any Colonels here, but she seemed pretty certain, described you to a tee.” He looked directly at John. “Thought you were an FBI agent?”

“Yeah, Colonel’s my other title.” John said wryly, “And no, I’m their OSI liaison.” Standing up he walked to the door, opening it further as Salazar moved to the side. “Carter!” he raised his voice a bit, catching her attention and waving her back over to them.

With a smile she walked over to them, entering the small conference room, Salazar entering behind her. “John, it’s good to see you. How’ve you been?”

“I’ve been good Colonel, Fairchild’s been fun, a nice break from my usual duties. How’s everyone?”

“John, we’re the same rank now, how many times do I have to ask before you call me Sam?” She rolled her eyes, and John grinned impishly back at her, it was a running gag between the two of them. She grinned back, “Only you could find teaching SERE a break.”

“Hey, there’s no running for my life or imminent peril. Or McKay- life’s pretty calm.”

“Well, I can definitely agree to the part about McKay. By the way he wants a call, something about Teyla and HGTV? I tuned him out.” Sam told him. “Everyone’s been good, I’m still on the Hammond; Cam, Daniel, Vala and Murray are still out doing their thing. I know Murray enjoys having Ronon around base to spar with and go out on missions with. Ronon seems to be enjoying himself, but then Ronon enjoys anything violent. McKay is… McKay, he says repairs are proceeding according to schedule, Radek and Miko were shouting in the background, so either you guys will be ready to go in half the time or something blew up.”

John let out a bark of laughter. “I’ll give him a call tonight, see what’s going on. Any other news?”

“Teyla sends her greetings, and wanted me to ask if you could call sometime tonight, Torren’s been asking for you. Oh and Lorne wants you back on base to deal with, I quote, ‘the nut-jobs we call the science department.’ Apparently he’s at his wits end.”

“I’ll call Teyla, or better yet, tell her I’ll video message her at 2000, so that I can read Torren his bedtime story. If I’m here for an extended period, would you mind bringing them out for a day or two? I haven’t seen Torren since his birthday, I miss the little guy. Tell Ronon to come and meet up with me while I’m in town, I haven’t seen him in a few weeks either, not since the last time he guest lectured for me.” John told her, ignoring the curious looks of the FBI agents and detective in the room.

“You had Ronon guest lecture?” Sam blinked in surprise, voice disbelieving.

“Who better to teach advanced evasion techniques than the man who managed to evade capture by the enemy for seven years on the run?” John replied, amused at the choking noise that came from Morgan and the disbelieving looks of the others.

“True, I suppose that he would know better than anyone what it takes to avoid enemy forces.” Sam agreed, “Any other messages?”

“Yeah, tell Evan I said to suck it up, that unless the base is under siege, I’m not heading back until we’re ready to go back.” John smirked, “I haven’t had a full day off since 2004, I deserve a break. Besides, he’s a Lieutenant Colonel now, he can manage.”

“Will do John.” Sam smirked back before shaking her head with a laugh, before getting back to the reason she was there in the first place, “I did as you asked and ran an in depth comparison of your victims military records. I did find one thing they’ve all had in common.”

“You did?” Jareau blinked in surprise.

“Yes, Agent…” Sam trailed off curiously.

“Jareau, Jennifer Jareau. Call me JJ.”

“Nice to meet you JJ,” Sam gave her a smile John recognized as her polite grin. “So, the one thing all of your guys had in common was that at one point or another, every one of them was connected to Cheyenne Mountain.”

“Our part of Cheyenne Mountain?” John interrupted before any of the others had time to speak.

“Yes.”

“Well that’s not good.” John said simply.

“I see you still have your gift for understatement.” Sam rolled her eyes, “Admittedly, not all of the men were stationed at the Mountain, specifically, but they were definitely all connected to the program. Hartley, for example was one of the squadron pilots on detachment at Peterson. Gantry apparently used to be a guard out at the Nevada research center. Most of these guys had no real clue what was going on, a lot of them were just guards at some point between 1946 and 1994, but enough of them had some idea that there is definitely a connection.” Sam sighed, “Actually, Daniel is going to be pretty upset, Hernandez was actually a military scientist who was there for the Langford/ Littlefield experiment.”

“Well, he would have been an interesting man to talk to.” 

“Tell me about it. Anyway, most of the younger guys were stationed on base at some point after we got active, but only two were on teams, most were support staff, but still-”

“Not good.”

“No. Everything just got a lot more complicated.”

Morgan cleared his throat, “Why, exactly, is it more complicated now, than what was happening before?”

“You see the program we’re involved in, and that all of these men at some point crossed paths with, is Presidential eyes only.”  
“Let’s just call it top secret, super classified, and very hush-hush.” John interjected.

Sam rolled her eyes at him, “And if your serial killer managed to get any information on the program from them-”

“Or somehow made it past all of our psych screenings, background checks and regular medical evaluations, and is a part of the program then we have a problem.” John interjected, looking over at Sam. Making her wrinkle her nose at him.

“I doubt that John, I mean the amount of testing we all have to go through just to be allowed anywhere near the project…” She trailed off, when John raised an eyebrow at her.

“You do remember how Jackson was recruited? Or Murray? And hell, Kavanagh managed to get into the program and he has the worst case of narcissistic personality disorder I’ve ever seen. Plus, you remember how I ended up as part of the program right?” John pointed out. “I got shot at while flying O’Neill, and he let me onto base as a thank you.”

Sam just made a face at him. “Point taken, although I argue that McKay is worse than Kavanagh.”

“No way, McKay can at least back up his claims, Kavanagh’s delusional. The only thing McKay is delusional about is anything concerning his health, and that you’d go on a date with him.”

The two were startled out of their conversation by a throat being cleared. “Sorry,” Prentiss said, “But are you telling me that our unsub either has access to information about, or is part of one of the most classified projects in the country?”

“Yes,” John and Sam answered together.

“We aren’t going to be making an arrest are we?” Salazar asked from his spot leaning against the wall, “I was in the military long enough to know that.” 

John just looked at him dead on for a minute, before pointedly turning back to Sam, and simply raising an eyebrow. She nodded, “I’ll call the General, see what he wants you to do. He’ll probably call sometime tomorrow.”

“Tell him I say hi,” John told her simply, “And that I want a real damn vacation for a change- one without bombs or shootouts or kidnappings.”

“Sure thing John, I’ll pass on all of your messages, don’t forget to make those calls.”

“I won’t, take care of yourself Sam.” He told her.

She headed towards the door, pausing in the doorway, “John, if he gives the order…” she hesitated to finish.

“I’ll do my duty, Colonel Carter. I just won’t be happy about it.” He replied, voice bitter. She closed her eyes briefly, hiding a wince John knew, and nodded back at him.

“I’ll make sure he’s aware of that Colonel Sheppard.” She looked back at him one last time, “Just catch this bastard John, the rest can sort itself out.” She walked out of the station without waiting for a reply.

***

John, the BAU team and Salazar were eating dinner and discussing how the connection to Cheyenne Mountain (“Let’s just say that our cover story sucks, so I try to avoid using it,” John had told the others when they had pressed him for details) helped them track down the unsub.

“If he isn’t part of the program, but has managed to get bits and pieces of information on it, he’s probably a bit paranoid. We do some weird and freaky stuff, and without all the details, well…” John trailed off.

“I’m sorry, but what exactly do you do?” Morgan asked putting down his fork. “Seriously, man, even just your cover story.”

Rolling his eyes, John deadpanned, “Deep space radar telemetry.”

“From under a mountain?” Salazar asked incredulously.

“It needs a little work, kid.” Rossi told him with a grin.

“Actually analysis of deep space radar telemetry readings would be possible in any location, even deep underground. I just doubt the need for such extreme secrecy and for as many Special Forces military assets as are at Cheyenne Mountain for something as simple as long range astrophysics analysis.” Reid said, making John smile- he liked Reid, the man had a sense of humor he could appreciate.

“At first it was just a vague cover that we planned to improve at a later time, but after it got used a few times and people believed it, it kind of became a running gag.” John shrugged, it wasn’t like he could tell them that he was normally stationed in another galaxy where he fought life-sucking aliens. “I told you guys before, I’m the military CO of an international base in enemy territory that is currently on stand down to be fixed up a bit.” That was actually the truth, their hyperdrive had been busted up when the city had made the trip to Earth.

“Alright, fine, don’t tell us. But how bad would it be if the unsub actually found out about it?” Morgan asked.

“Let’s just say, that if we don’t take care of the problem, one of our allied nations will.”

“So the unsub’s going to be killed?” JJ asked, surprised, “Without a fair trial or anything?”

“If he isn’t killed during the arrest, then he might get a closed military hearing first.” John considered, “Actually he probably will get some sort of trial or tribunal, but no, he probably won’t live long once he’s convicted.”

Before the discussion could continue, John’s phone began to ring. Looking down at the number, he briefly closed his eyes, he had a feeling he knew what the order would be.

“Sheppard.” He answered.

“Sheppard, its O’Neill. Carter tells me your serial killer guy is after soldiers who were part of the SGC.”

“Yes sir.”

“Well, we can’t have that.”

“No sir.”

“So, I’m thinking you need to catch this son of a bitch. WALTER!”

John jerked the phone away from his ear, hearing a distant ‘Yes, General,’ come from somewhere in the background, before O’Neill obviously began talking to Walter (John assumed it was Harriman). “Get me the files on all the guys this sicko’s killed.”

He heard Harriman tell O’Neill that they were ‘right there, sir’ and smothered a laugh.

“Oh yeah,” O’Neill’s voice said, and then there was a rustling of papers, “Sheppard I’m going to assume that all of the men killed were gayer than a Chippendales chorus line based on the fact that the ones that were out of the military were. Quite frankly, I don’t give a rat’s ass if they were sleeping with an Unas, it’s not my business, and it didn’t hurt anyone. You do whatever you need to do to catch the fucker that’s killing our men. And when you do…” O’Neill paused.

“Yes, sir?” John practically held his breath.

“Do everything you can to bring him in alive, I want his head on a pole.”

“Yes, sir.” John was a lot more enthusiastic with that response, he’d kill if he had to, if he was ordered to, but he didn’t like it. “You know sir, Todd always enjoys visitors.” John said nonchalantly.

“You’re a sick man, Sheppard, but that might be a fitting punishment for this bastard. At least, until the IOA finally lets me kill the monster in the basement.” John could practically hear the eye roll.

“Unlikely sir, they’re probably too busy experimenting. I say we make it look like PETA.”

O’Neill snorted, “Good luck with that, just release him into the wild when you get back; or shoot him. Whichever. And you’ll get a month’s leave once this bastard is caught, President’s orders. He offered up to two months if you want it, I’ll leave it up to you.”

“Thank you sir!”

“Thank the President, he likes you for some reason.” John rolled his eyes at the sarcastic drawl. “He did say he wanted a visit while you’re on leave, so make sure you leave time for that. Something about dinner at the White House.”

“Yes sir, I’ll leave time for dinner.”

“Good. Just catch the fucker, Sheppard.” And with that O’Neill hung up.

Closing his cell phone, John looked up at the curious faces around the table. “What?” he asked.

Prentiss rolled her eyes at him, used to his antics from when they were at FLETC together. “Spill it Shep, what was the verdict.”

John purposefully hesitated, before telling them brightly, “After we catch the unsub I have at least one month’s leave, and up to two months leave if I choose to take it. Hawaii here I come.”

“Johnny,” Rossi admonished, making John just raise an eyebrow at him.

“What did you mean about allowing the unsub a visit with Todd?” Reid decided to ask.

“Todd’s an enemy soldier that is also a… psychopathic cannibal we currently have in custody. He keeps complaining about the food.” John told them with a wicked grin. At their horrified looks he rolled his eyes, “I was kidding.”

“So you don’t have a psychopathic cannibal in custody?” Jareau asked him.

“No, about allowing the unsub to visit him. Todd’s been a bit moody lately, lots of complaints that prison orange is not his color.”

After a few moments of horrified silence, and the team staring at him, John finally caved. “Can we get back to work now? I’ve been ordered to bring the unsub in alive so the General can have his head on a pole for killing his men.”

The tension in the room ratcheted down several degrees after that statement, and they all went back to the paperwork. Reid was still working on his geographic profile, while Jareau was working on a press release. John was building a timeline of when the men had been connected to the Mountain, and how, trying to see how everything fit together on his personal laptop. Rossi, Morgan and Prentiss were going through the videos of the abductions they had managed to get a hold of. 

Suddenly John’s watch began to beep. Looking down at it he grinned, it was 1950, and in a few minutes he’d get to talk to Torren and Teyla. “Detective, is there somewhere I can have a private video conference with someone? I have my own computer with me,” John patted the McKay enhanced laptop in front of him.

“Sure, you can use my office, no one will interrupt you.” Salazar paused, obviously weighing whether or not to ask, but seeing John’s raised eyebrow, pushed ahead, “You mind me asking who you’re calling?”

“Nope, I promised a little boy a bedtime story.” John replied, ignoring the slightly mushy looks on the women’s faces. Standing up and following Salazar out of the room, he carried his computer to the detective’s desk. “Thanks detective, I appreciate it. Torren will too, I don’t get to see him very often at the moment, and it’s hard to find a good time to call.”

“Don’t worry about it Colonel, I spent most of my girls first five years being a marine on another continent.” Salazar said, motioning to a picture of a pair of twin girls, “They’re ten now, and I’m just thankful I’ve been at home at them for the last five years. But I remember how difficult it was being away, one of my biggest regrets is that I missed so many firsts. How olds your boy?”

“Fourteen months.” John decided to leave off the explanation that Torren was only his godson, he loved the boy like he was his son, and he knew Teyla didn’t mind; the Athosian definition of godfather (well Napata was the Athosian word) was slightly different than the American version. Pulling open the computer, and opening the video messaging program, John thanked the detective again, and settled in to wait for Teyla to log on, plugging in a set of headphones, so that Teyla didn’t have to watch what she said quite as closely. He knew that sometimes the secrecy of the Stargate Program on Earth confounded her.

As the detective closed the door behind him, John thought back to when Teyla had asked him to be Torren’s Napata. Shortly after she’d told him she was pregnant, and he’d finally told her how furious he was that she’d put the baby in danger by not telling him and going on missions. They’d had one of the only fights they’d ever been in, practically screaming at each other. They hadn’t spoken for several days, and he knew that most of the base had assumed it was because he was jealous he wasn’t the father. Only Teyla and Ronon actually knew the truth about him, although he suspected that several people had guessed that he couldn’t have been any less interested in dating Teyla. She was the sister he’d never had.

After they’d both cooled off they’d settled their issues- Teyla would be pulled off of active duty and first contact missions, and only go on trade missions to friendly planets where they had Jumper support, until she was six months, then be pulled off missions completely. A few months later, Teyla had explained what a Napata was. “A Napata, or third parent, is exactly that.” She’d said, “If both of a child’s parents are alive, the Napata serves as a beloved aunt or uncle, helping the parents to care for the child if it is needed, and guiding him or her in life. If one of the child’s parents dies, then the Napata becomes the second caregiver, treating the child as their own son or daughter, often the child comes to call their Napata either mother or father in such circumstances, although the Napata and birth parent reside in separate tents. If both of the child’s parents perish, than the Napata takes the child in and raises it as if it were their own flesh and blood, becoming that child’s parent in every way that matters. Traditionally the Napata is a family member of one of the child’s parents, or if a family member is unavailable, their closest of friends. John, I would have you be my child’s Napata.”

John had been shocked, but after a lengthy discussion, had agreed, assuming that he’d be playing uncle to the baby; a role he’d already planned on taking up. After Torren had been born, and the surviving Athosian’s had recovered from their torture at Michael’s hands, John had participated in the Napa ceremony, dedicating himself as Torren’s Napata. From that point on, in the eyes of the Athosians, and those with similar customs, Torren was as his own son, and he was expected to raise him as such. It wasn’t difficult, Torren was a great kid, and John loved him to pieces.

He was startled out of his thoughts when the screen in front of him blinked on and he was greeted by an ear piercing squeal of delight, followed by a stream of baby babble. John grinned brightly back at Torren, nodding along to his babble, talking with him. Teyla’s amused face was clear from behind where Torren was seated in her lap, smiling at the two of them.

“Hello John.” She said, as Torren paused for breath.

“Hey Teyla, how’ve you been?”

“We have been well. Although, as you can surely tell, you have been missed.” Teyla nodded at Torren, who was happily repeating “Ja-ja” at him, his name for John.

“So I see,” John smiled, “So little man, how about a story?”

Torren’s squeal of excitement made it obvious what his thoughts on the matter were, and John smile widened a little bit more, “Do you have your books picked out?” he asked, knowing Teyla would have chosen stories he had long since memorized.

Bobbing his head, Torren leaned to the side off of Teyla’s lap and grabbed at something. Shaking her head with a small smile, Teyla reached over and picked up what Torren was reaching for, holding it up to show John the cover.

“Goodnight Moon,” John saw, “Great choice Torren!” He exclaimed, enjoying the beaming grin on the boy’s face, and began to recite the story as Teyla turned the pages. After the story was finished, John saw that Torren’s eyes were at half-mast, the child obviously fighting to keep from going to sleep. “One more story, okay little man?” John asked, an indulgent look on his face. At Torren’s sleepy nod, John said, “How about Guess How Much I Love You?” Looking over at Teyla he saw her nod, he knew that Teyla really liked that story too.

She pulled out the book and John began to recite the story, watching as Torren’s eyes closed and the boy slipped into sleep. Smiling, he finished the story, “The End. Sweet dreams little man, I love you.”

He watched as Teyla smiled down at her son, and kissed him on the forehead. She motioned for John to stay there, and got up to tuck Torren into his crib. Coming back a few minutes later they settled in to talk.

“I do not recognize the room you are in John?” She asked, “Have you changed offices?”

“No one told you? I’m not at Fairchild at the moment, O’Neill sent me to Colorado Springs with an FBI team to investigate a series of murders.”

“Murders?” she exclaimed, surprised, “I do not understand, I thought that you were to train soldiers on what they should do when captured? Why has he changed his mind? Do your people not have those whose job is to investigate such crimes? Your movies have implied that you do.”

“Yeah, that’s what the FBI is for, but the thing is that the killer is also going after soldiers, and that means a separate military organization has to investigate as well. That’s where I come in, I’m representing the military’s investigative agencies as their OSI agent. O’Neill sent me specifically since several of the victims were associated with the deep space radar telemetry program. Actually, will you let Lorne know that Orsini was one of the victims. His funeral is at Arlington on the 9th and I imagine a lot of our guys will want to go.”

“Oh John, this man you are looking for killed Sergeant Orsini? Stabsunteroffizier Schmidt will be heartbroken.”

“Yeah, I know, I called him yesterday to let him know. He’s coming back to the states, he should arrive tomorrow morning. Anyway, we’re working to catch the bastard, he’s killing current and former soldier’s that were connected to the program, specifically gay soldiers. We’re trying to figure out how he’s finding his victims at the moment.” John told her.

Teyla’s face was stricken, “John, promise me that you will be careful. I do not, we do not want anything to happen to you!”

“I’ll be careful Teyla. But enough about me, what have you guys been up to?” John changed the subject, he hadn’t meant to worry her.

“We are well, Rodney wishes you to call him, he says that there is a problem with repairs. Dr. Zelenka, however says that Rodney is merely being overdramatic. I will let you mediate.” She offered him a playful smile.

“Gee, thanks.”

“Everyone here is well, although Lieutenant Colonel Lorne has looked stressed recently. Carson is still visiting his mother, but Jennifer has returned from visiting her father, she has brought back video of some most interesting television shows. Your people are strangely interested in the decoration of their homes.” Teyla shook her head, and John held in laugh. “Ronon has said that he is enjoying his time at the Mountain, and that fighting the Lucian Alliance is interesting.”

“Ronon said all that? Really?” John asked dryly.

“Not in so many words,” Teyla demurred, causing John to let out a bark of laughter.

“I wish I could talk more, but I have to go Teyla,” John told her, seeing Reid poke his head into the office. “Give Torren my love, and you guys take care, okay?”

“I shall do so John, you will be careful, yes?” She raised an eyebrow at him.

“I’m always careful Teyla.” John told her, rolling his eyes at her hearty laughter as she turned off the video feed. Pulling out his earphones, he pouted, “I am.”

“I’m sure you are Colonel, but we’re about ready to head out to canvas some of the local clubs, are you coming?” Reid asked him, amused.

“Yeah, I’m coming.” John closed his computer and brought it back to the conference room with Reid.

***

Walking into the fourth club they’d visited that night, John paused to allow his eyes to adjust to the flashing lights. Beside him Morgan was looking around curiously. The two had paired together to hit some of the more… flamboyant clubs, while Reid, Salazar and Jareau covered the more low key ones, and Rossi and Prentiss took the kinkier clubs. John had immediately refused to go into those when they’d been dividing up the list of places they were going to that night with the help of the officer John had spoken to the day before. 

When the officer had pouted at him and asked why not, John had rather pointedly replied, “I’ve spent too much time in real dungeons, I don’t need to visit play ones.” Causing the man to flinch and finally back off and stop hitting on him. The BAU agents had quickly agreed, and they’d divided up the list.

Looking at the naked sculpture in the middle of the room, John tilted his head, watching it flash different colors. “This is…” he trailed off, not sure what to say.

“I can see why they call it the Fallen Angel,” Morgan remarked, gesturing at the cage dancers wearing only little gold thongs and black feathered wings.  
John nodded in agreement, allowing himself to look the nearest one over. Then he blinked. Groaning, he motioned Morgan to follow him, and walked over to the cage dancer.

“MOORE!” he shouted a couple times, trying to be heard over the music, before realizing that it would sound like he was shouting “more”. Rolling his eyes he shouted again, “DOC! HEY, JOEY!” catching the dancers eye.

He watched the shocked look spread over Moore’s face, and waved at the man to come with him. Moore looked over his shoulder at someone, and signaled something, before hopping down to the ground level John and Morgan were on. Morgan was looking rather pole-axed, as Moore waved at them to follow him.

The three made their way through the crowd, bodies pressing against theirs as they followed Moore to a side door. A large burly man stood guard, and Moore stood on his tiptoes to whisper in the man’s ear. With a nod the guard stepped aside and allowed Moore to lead John and Morgan into the much quieter backroom.

Glancing around, John could tell that this was obviously the dancer’s changing area. Looking at Moore, John raised his eyebrow. “So, Doc, should I even ask why an internationally renowned oceanographer and former Marine is a go-go dancer in his spare time? Especially since, last I checked, you were still employed up at the mountain. ”

“Hi Colonel, good to see you too, no really I’ve been great, how are you?” Moore replied sarcastically. John rolled his eyes, Moore had always been one of his favorite scientists, he could take care of himself in the field and wasn’t afraid to get mouthy.

“Seriously Moore, how are you?” John caved and asked.

“I’m good Colonel. Work’s going well, this is just my way of blowing off some steam.”

“I thought fucking Kowalski was your way of blowing off steam?”

Moore gave him a lascivious grin, “It is. Or was, he’s currently back in Poland visiting his family. And let’s just say that mama Kowalski is a very strict Catholic woman, so I’m here, bored, with my boy toy on the other side of the planet. Phone sex only goes so far, and work was tough today.” Moore pouted at him.

John rolled his eyes at Moore’s antics, for all of his joking, he knew that Moore and Kowalski were serious. “Poor baby.” He drawled sarcastically.

“Seriously though Colonel, what’s up? I know you well enough to know that you aren’t the type to hit the clubs. A bar, yes, but not a dance club- even if you do have a really nice piece of man candy with you.” Moore looked at him curiously after looking Morgan up and down.

Morgan stiffened visibly. John smirked, “Doctor Joey Moore, meet Special Agent Derek Morgan with the FBI. Morgan this is Doctor Joey Moore, oceanographer. We’re on a case Moore.”

“Case? Since when are you a cop Sheppard?”

“Since O’Neill called me and told me I was being reinstated as an OSI agent.” John drawled out, raising an eyebrow when Moore started laughing. “What’s so funny?”

“You may have been an OSI agent before you were part of the program, but I’ve seen you in action enough times to know you weren’t an investigative agent, Colonel. Some other type of OSI agent, but not an investigative one.”

John just smiled his blandest smile back, and didn’t reply. Morgan, however was apparently tired of the conversation, “Look man, we’re looking for a serial killer, and we’re trying to get the word out that someone is targeting people in the area.”

“There’s lots of people in the area, Agent.” Moore replied, voice dripping with disdain.

“Look Moore, this guy’s targeting gay current and former soldiers who are connected to the program somehow.” Sheppard interjected, well aware of the scientists intolerance for bullshit (he well remembered the mission to Water World, the slap fight was epic).

“Oh, not good.”

“No, not really. Anyways, I’m hoping you can get the word out? Let the guys in the area know?” At Moore’s skeptical look, John added exasperatedly, “It’s not like I can go to the base and ask all of the gay soldiers to attend an informational meeting, Moore. Not to mention I know you know at least half of the gay men in the program.” 

“Point. Alright, I’ll warn who I know and pass the message along, and ask the guys to play telephone with it. What do you want them to know?”

“Just that someone is hunting them and to watch their backs. We don’t have any suspects yet, but I’ll let you know when we do, keep you in the loop on any developments. Let everyone know that once we have a description of this guy, I’ll make sure it gets around. You know how I feel about people killing my men, and this guy got Orsini.”

“Yeah,” Moore winced lightly at the memory of the last person who had killed one of their people, he’d practically been in pieces once Sheppard and Ronon had finished with him. Sighing the man rubbed his forehead, “When’s Paolo’s funeral? You know everyone is going to want to go.”

“The ninth, in Arlington. I’ll be there, and I’m sure Carter can handle arranging transportation for anyone who wants to go.” John paused, considering. “Is Stackhouse in town? I know he ran in a different crowd from you, but he probably knows the other half of the guys in the program that ‘Don’t Tell.’” John said the last words sarcastically, complete with finger quotes. Crap, he’d been spending too much time with McKay.

“Nah, he’s… out of town at the moment, supposed to get in tomorrow around 3. I can tell him to call?”

“Please, and if he can’t call, tell him to stop by the Colorado State Police Station, we’re running ops out of there.”

“Sure thing Colonel. You want to dance before you head out? I’d love to be able to tell the guys I got to take THE Colonel Sheppard for a spin.” Moore winked at him.

John gave a laugh, “Sorry Joey, you’re not my type.”

Moore gave an exaggerated sigh, and snapped his fingers, “Darn. For the record, what is your type?”

John just gave him a broad grin, he knew that there was a lot of money and candy points in the pool over what his type was since he’d never dated when he was stationed on Atlantis, “Single.” He joked back.

Moore just rolled his eyes, and stood up. “Fine, be that way, I’ve got to get back to work, this may be a job just for fun, but it’s still a job.”

“Thanks for your time, Doctor.” Morgan said, causing Moore to roll his eyes again as he opened the door.

“Thanks Joey, watch your six, okay?” John told him.

“Wilco, Colonel.” Moore replied seriously, meeting John’s eyes. “But first I want to watch your six,” he joked and waved John and Morgan out the door, making John grin at him and oblige.

***

By the time they’d all gotten back to the station it was almost one in the morning. “I’m calling the night,” Morgan said, “It is way too late, and I have seen way too much naked man flesh, I need to sleep.”

“Agreed,” Rossi said, “Let’s head back to the hotel and start fresh in the morning. Be back at the station by ten, get some sleep tonight people, we got the word out to the local community, and JJ scheduled a press conference tomorrow evening.”

They all nodded and agreed, piling into the SUV’s. John groaned, he had to call McKay before he went to sleep. Crap, McKay didn’t know the meaning of brief, this was going to be a two hour phone call.

“What’s wrong?” Reid asked from the passenger seat.

“I have to call McKay before I go to sleep tonight. It’s going to take a while.” He paused, “Actually, if I call him while you guys are here would one of you fake calling me to do something so that I can keep the conversation under an hour?”

“He’s one of those people, huh?” Rossi asked from the driver’s seat.

“Yeah.” John sighed.

“Not a problem, make your call.” Rossi concluded.

“Thanks,” John said as he dialed McKay’s number.

“Colonel, so good of you to call.” Came the snippy voice as McKay answered the phone.

“What’s going on McKay? Carter said something about an explosion? And Teyla said you and Zelenka were arguing?”

“Oh, I see how it is. No, how are you Rodney, old buddy, old pal? No, how’s your day been as you slave away repairing the hyperdrive that I broke. No-”

“McKay!” John interrupted, “It’s one in the morning and I barely slept last night, since you woke me up to bitch at me about Zelenka at four in the morning. Get to the point or get off the phone.”

John listened as McKay sputtered indignantly, “Oh, and I didn’t break anything. Carson did. Not my fault.”

“It was totally your fault! The wormhole drive is shot to hell, when we landed the main engine was stressed to the point of no return, the amount of strain it was under to make the journey from Pegasus to Earth in that amount of time, using Zelenka’s shoddy calculations-”

John could hear Zelenka shouting in Czech the background and rolled his eyes. “Rodney! Are you going to be able to fix it or not?”

“That’s what I am trying to tell you, it can’t be fixed, it is broken to the point of no return, it’s gone, kaput, destroyed-”

“Then make a new one Rodney,” John interrupted, “What about the other thing, not that part, but the rest of it.”

“We can’t just ‘make a new one’ Colonel, it is extremely delicate and complex equipment developed by the Ancients, it’s not like I can go to Radioshack and order a replacement piece.” Rodney began to rant at him.

“Rodney, are we going to be able to go back- yes or no?” John finally demanded after several minutes.

“What, yes of course we are, we just won’t have the wormhole drive, the stardrive and the hyperdrive both can be repaired. As long as Zelenka doesn’t mess it up again!” McKay obviously directed the last statement at Zelenka, who promptly began yelling back at McKay. John rolled his eyes as the two descended into bickering.

“Boys, behave or I’ll put you both in timeout. Rodney, fix what you can, and if you call me for anything less than a full scale invasion, I’m having Jeannie come fix everything, and you can go visit your old friends in Siberia- Meredith.” John hung up on his sputtering.

Reid and Rossi were both looking amused, John just looked at them evenly, “What?”

“Who’s Jeannie?” Reid asked.

“McKay’s sister, they’re very… competitive.” John told them as they pulled into the hotel parking lot. The three men chatted idly as they entered the hotel, before the subject somehow turned to mathematics. Reid brought up the solution to the Poincare conjecture, and John and he began to discuss it.

By the time they had reached their floor, Rossi was staring at the two bemusedly as they flirted over the Ricci flow and how it was used to prove that every simply connected, closed 3-manifold was homeomorphic to the 3-sphere. As they reached their rooms Rossi bid them both a good night, as they continued discussing the ramifications the proof would have on mathematics, standing outside of their rooms.

Twenty minutes later the two said goodnight and slipped into their rooms, promising to continue the discussion the next day, and knowing they’d need to rest before work. 

***

May 30, 2009

John woke up instantly, bile slamming at the back of his throat, as the scream he never let out echoed in his head. He rolled instinctively, legs tangling in his blankets, trapping his legs and causing his adrenaline to ramp up even higher. Breathing labored, he thrashed hard against the blankets that felt like ropes, until he was shocked out of the memory when he crashed hard against the floor.

Taking deep breaths he forced himself to relax muscle by muscle, slowing his breathing to a four count beat. Slowly he felt his pulse slow down. Sitting upright, he crossed his legs and leaned forward, resting his head in his hands, and rubbing at his eyes with the base of his palms. He hated this. 

Standing up after collecting his thoughts, he changed into a pair of running shorts, and threw on his sneakers, grabbing a water bottle out of the mini-fridge. The hotel had a miniature gym on the ground floor, with a treadmill. Since it was only, glancing at his watch he snorted, 0500 the place would likely be empty.

Reaching the gym he headed to the treadmill, turned it on and set it up high. He wanted to lose himself in the movement of his body, pushing the memories out with sweat. Running and running with no thought in mind- just peace, silence.

He was startled out of his rhythm when the door to the gym slammed open, and he automatically jumped off of the machine, turning to face whoever was entering, eyes wild. He let the tension bleed back out again when he saw it was just some yuppie businessman with a comb-over and a pot belly.

“Sorry.” The man’s southern drawl washed over John, “I diddin mean to startle ya, son. Ya still usin’ that?”

John gave him a tight grin, “Nope, it’s all yours.” John grabbed his water bottle, and moved towards the door.

“I don’ mean to run ya outta here, boy. Ya can stay if ya wanna, I don’ mind the company.” The businessman was looking at John kindly, and he could feel the walls he’d spent; John glanced at his watch and winced internally; the last three hours building back up start to crumble.

“Sorry,” he said, “I need to start getting ready for the day, duty calls.” He offered the businessman a conspiratorial grin, and the man chuckled in reply.

“I hear that. Ya take care now.” 

“You too.” John offered him a wave and headed to the elevator. 

He waited patiently as a group of tourists dressed for hiking came off of it and climbed in, pressing the button for his floor. Alone, he pulled up the bottom of his shirt to wipe off his face, attempting to clear up some of the sweat.

“Oh my God.”

John jerked his head up and his shirt down, he didn’t want them getting a look at his feeding scar, there was no way he could explain that away. The elevator door had opened and Jareau and Reid were obviously waiting to enter. It had been Jareau who had spoken. Obviously noticing the hard smile John was giving the two of them, Reid drew Jareau to the side. John quickly made his way past the two of them, heading to his room to shower and change.

He was about ten feet down the hall when Reid called his name, “Sheppard!” Hiding his internal groan, John turned around to look at the two and raised an eyebrow. Reid flushed lightly, but continued speaking, “We’re all headed down to the breakfast buffet if you want to join us.”

John blinked in surprise, he’d been expecting a comment on his scars. He nodded at them and offered Reid a small smile, before entering his room. Toeing off his shoes, he headed directly to his shower as he peeled off his sweat soaked shirt and shorts. Turning on the water he stepped into the luke warm spray, enjoying the feel of it on his skin as the water heated up. Turning under the shower head, he let the hot water beat into his shoulders and neck, washing away the last of the stiffness that came with his nightmares. It wasn’t the jet-powered pure awesome of Atlantis’ showers, but the hotel definitely had better water pressure than his apartment in Washington.

Grabbing his shampoo, he squirted some into his palm before he began rubbing it into his head with a sigh. Lost in thought, he unconsciously let his hand play along the scar on his scalp. Drawing in a deep breath he stuck his head under the water and rinsed it out. Grabbing a washcloth, he poured a dollop of soap into it, running it over his body with a light frown. It may be girly, but he preferred using a loofah over a washcloth, he felt cleaner when he used one. Finishing washing up he leaned forward and put his hands against the wall, watching as the soap ran down his legs, sticking briefly to the hair on his legs before it swirled away down the drain.

When the water ran clean he reluctantly turned the water off and grabbed a towel from the rack. Rubbing it quickly over himself he stepped out of the shower and wrapped the towel around his hips. He walked over to the sink to perform his morning ablutions. Picking up his razor, he considered skipping his shave, but decided he couldn’t afford to look scruffy today.

Spitting out his mouthwash, he grabbed a comb and quickly ran it through his hair. Looking at himself in the mirror he sighed, the bags under his eyes pretty well told the story of how well he’d been sleeping lately, but this time of year always did that to him. Even McKay knew not to comment on it after John had nearly taken his head off about it the first year of the expedition.

Going to his pack, he rummaged through it, before deciding on his outfit. Slipping into his underwear he quickly pulled a pair of jeans over them, and he grabbed a black t-shirt to wear, it was supposed to be warm out today, so he’d skip the flannel. Next he strapped on his holster, followed by a second ankle holster, and multiple knives being secreted on his body, and a set of lock picks in his boot. He left two knives in plain sight, a habit leftover from Pegasus, where you left a few in plain view and hid the rest- just in case. Snorting, he slipped his wallet with his freshly issued OSI Agent badge into his pocket, and pulled his wristband back on. He was ready to greet the day. Looking at the clock he saw that twenty minutes had passed, there was something to be said about military efficiency, he thought ruefully as he pulled his hotel room door open, and headed down to the buffet, where the others would be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a note, Sheppard's cell phone is SGC issue, as is his computer; both are secure lines that have been enhanced using alien technology and the giant brains of the SGC and Atlantis science departments.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you once more to my amazing beta Evelyna.

Spencer stirred some more sugar into his coffee, only paying the barest of attention to what the others were speaking about; most of his thoughts were on the mysterious Colonel John Sheppard. He was a puzzle, and Spencer liked puzzles. The man was covered in scars- both the physical and (if the shadows in his eyes were any clue) the emotional; but when he smiled it was real, when he had laughed at Spencer’s (admittedly lame) math jokes real pleasure had sparkled in his eyes. Spencer had never seen someone so… abused, be so whole.

The sight of his bare chest when the elevator doors had opened had sent a flash through Spencer, part of it curiosity, and part of it arousal. Sitting in silence at the table Spencer mentally catalogued the scars (and the very nice abs) he’d seen before Sheppard had jerked his shirt back down, half an ear tuned in to where JJ was telling Emily and Morgan about the scars they’d seen. Rossi had declined to join them for breakfast. Looking up he noticed the Colonel was at the buffet line, filling a tray with food.

Silently he studied the man, the long, lean torso, and even longer legs. The soldier’s muscles rippled beneath his shirt as he leaned forward to grab some fruit from the buffet and Spencer had to look away, aware of the light blush spreading across his cheeks. He paused to shove a forkful of eggs into his mouth, determined not to let his… crush (although he would vehemently deny it to anyone who asked) upset the case.

Unable to resist glancing up, he noticed that Sheppard was headed toward their fairly isolated table to join them. Seeing him looking Sheppard offered him a grin, but Spencer could tell it didn’t meet his eyes, with the deep circles beneath them. Sheppard looked drawn and exhausted, weariness and sorrow nearly seeping from his pores. Spencer knew, intuitively, that Sheppard wouldn’t want attention brought to it; that he’d prefer to ignore it all.

It’s only because he’s watching Sheppard out of the corner of his eye (he was not staring, no matter what Morgan teased him about later) that he saw the man’s smile freeze and his body stiffen as he came closer to the table. Spencer looked up at him puzzled, and something in Sheppard’s posture relaxed slightly, but he was still stiff. He practically marched his last few steps over to the table, and dropped his tray with a clatter in the empty seat between JJ and Morgan.

Observing the scene, Spencer noticed that JJ has paled drastically, while Prentiss was biting one of her nails (that wasn’t good, Prentiss didn’t bite her nails unless she was extremely worried), and Morgan had that half-defiant and half-guilty look on his face that made him look like a teenager. Spencer tuned back in to what was happening at seeing the bland look on Sheppard’s face, and the snapping anger in his eyes- that couldn’t be good.

Sheppard’s voice, when he did speak, was pleasant, but his eyes were nearly feral, and it caused Spencer to shiver. “If you wanted to know about my scars Agent Jareau,” he began pleasantly, “You only needed to ask, after all it’s not as if you haven’t done a background check on me and pried into matters that aren’t your concern already.” He paused, and JJ was staring at him, paralyzed, “The scar you were referring to is from a mission in which I was impaled while attempting to save our Chief Medical Officer’s life. She later had to perform a complete abdominal exploration on me to ensure that nothing had perforated my intestines, nor had the… far less than sterile implement left anything behind.” Spencer blinked, there was something off about that explanation, but he couldn’t figure out what.

The blandly pleasant tone of voice was creepy, Spencer thought, idly wondering if the Colonel had ever done theater. JJ seemed to have frozen in her seat horror-struck; Morgan was looking more guilty than defiant now, that comment about prying had obviously affected him. Prentiss was looking away, unable to meet Sheppard’s eyes, obviously embarrassed. Spencer, however, had nothing to feel guilty about, and was instead primarily trying to keep himself from babbling out statistics about the success rates of survival after intestinal perforation; he knew that now isn’t the time. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the family at the next table gaping at Sheppard.

Sheppard’s eyes were flinty, almost black in anger as he looked at JJ, but his voice was still blandly pleasant, “If you would like to know about any of my other scars, Agent Jareau, just ask- although I may not be allowed to answer.” He then sat down, picked up his fork, and took a bite of his eggs, like nothing had happened. After a couple of bites Sheppard looked up at JJ, “I would have expected that the media liaison for such a high profile team of investigators would be more circumspect, Agent Jareau.” His voice was still blandly pleasant, and JJ looked mortified.

They all sat in silence for a while; Sheppard and he were the only ones who seemed to be eating, however. Spencer was so busy trying to think of some way to salvage breakfast that at first he didn’t notice the small boy who seemed to have wiggled away from his family and was now tugging on Sheppard’s arm.

He watched as Sheppard looked down, and upon seeing the boy, his entire face became animated, “Hey there buddy, what’s up?”

The boy was looking at Sheppard and chewing on his lower lip, then he stuck his hand out at the man, “My name’s Kyle, and I’m six and a half.”

Sheppard grinned brightly, “Hi Kyle, my name’s John.” He shook the boys hand solemnly.

Spencer saw the mother a table over start to look around, a low hum of concern thrumming around her, obviously looking for the boy. Kyle however, seemed to be drumming up his courage before blurting out, “I heard the blonde lady talkin’ bout your scars. An’ you said that you’d gotten stabbed. Can I see your scars?”

Spencer saw Sheppard look slightly taken aback, and he seemed to be considering how to answer, when the woman came barreling over, “Kyle! Oh my God, I’m so sorry. Kyle you can’t just ask people those sorts of questions, it isn’t appropriate.”

“But Mo-om,” the child’s whine raised an octave to nearly ear piercing levels.

“No, no buts now apologize and let the man get back to his vacation.” She looked down at him sternly.

“It’s fine,” Sheppard interrupted her, before Kyle can apologize, “Curiosity is a good thing, means he wants to learn. But I’m sorry, Kyle I can’t show you those scars.”

“How come?” The boy switched from smiling happily at his mother to pouting in an instant. 

“Because those scars are under my shirt, and you have to wear a shirt when you’re out to eat, right?” Sheppard asked, smiling. The mother was looking amused too, and Kyle bit his lip as he thought it over.

“I s’pose.” He sighed, “But they sounded like pretty neat scars. I’ve got a cool scar!” he brightened.

“You do, huh?”

“Yeah, I got it when I was using Mark’s skateboard. I fell and there was a piece of glass. I had to get fourteen stitches.” The child said proudly, and Spencer could see the rest of his team smothering grins. The child’s mother rolled her eyes in fond exasperation.

“Fourteen!” Sheppard exclaimed, widening his eyes, “That’s a lot of stitches.”

“I know! Here, look, John.” The boy wobbled as he stood on one leg to show off a jagged scar on his other leg.

“Whoa! That’s a pretty cool scar.” Sheppard tinted his voice with an impressed tone, but his amusement was easy to see as he reached out a hand to steady the wobbling boy by his shoulder. 

Sheppard seemed to be considering something. “You know what kiddo; I do have a scar I can show you.” Sheppard began, “But I need you to promise that you won’t tell anybody about where I got it, okay?”

Kyle’s eyes widened, huge in his little face and he nodded vigorously, “I promise, John! I promise!” His mother smiled down at him indulgently, mouthing a ‘Thank you,’ to Sheppard behind her son’s back.

Leaning down, Sheppard rolled up his pants leg, unstrapping the holster and handing it to Spencer, making him squeak. Unlacing his combat boot and pulling it off he put it down between his feet. Then he began to roll down his sock.

Spencer stared blankly at the gun in his hands, before settling it in his lap, out of the child’s reach (he was staring at it rather intensely, and his mother was looking a bit paranoid).

“Colonel?” Morgan asked, obviously having seen the look on the mother’s face, “What are you doing?” The woman relaxed at the rank, apparently taking comfort in the fact that Sheppard was military.

“I am showing Kyle,” He paused as he rolled down his sock a bit further, and rolling up the leg of his pants, “What it looks like when you accidently step into a bear trap.”

Spencer’s mouth had dropped open at the sight of the old injury, it looked as if he’d been stabbed repeatedly, and messily on both sides of his ankle, the wounds had obviously been ragged, tearing into his leg deeply and had healed roughly. He watched as the rest of the team leaned over the table to see, most of them wincing at the sight. The child, Kyle’s, mother gasped and flinched.

“Oh! That’s awesome!” Kyle exclaimed, reaching out to touch it with the enthusiasm only a little boy had for nasty scars. Sheppard let him feel the bumps and grooves of the shredded flesh for a minute before gently removing his leg from the child’s grasp. “How’d you get it?” He asked as Sheppard pulled his sock back up and put his boot and gun back on, rolling his pants leg over it.

“Well, it’s a bit of a story, and you can only stay to hear it if you’re mom says its okay?” Sheppard asked looking up at her. 

The woman shook herself out of it and glanced at her watch, looking down at her son making puppy dog eyes at her she sighed, “Alright, your Uncle won’t be here to pick us up for fifteen minutes anyway.” At her son’s cheer she rolled her eyes, grabbing a seat from the empty table behind her to sit at, and letting out a grunt as Kyle scrambled into her lap.

“Well then, you comfy?” Sheppard asked, and smiled when the boy nodded vigorously. “A while back some of my friends and I were on a mission-”

“Where?” Kyle interrupted. His mother shushed him.

“I’m not allowed to tell you, it was a secret mission.” The boy ooo-ed. “But I can tell you it was somewhere very cold. Unfortunately, sometimes when it’s very cold helicopters can have a very hard time flying, and unluckily for us, the very cold weather meant we couldn’t fly any further. So, since there was a bad blizzard, we… landed the helicopter, but it was a very rough landing, and we all got some bumps and bruises.” Spencer winced, he could tell that Sheppard was seriously editing the story for little ears, and it had obviously been a bit worse.

“Were you the one flying the hell-copper?” Kyle asked.

“No, my friend Ground Control was.”

“His name was Ground Control?” Kyle asked confusedly.

“No, it was his nickname; it’s from an old song.” Sheppard explained.

“This is Major Tom to ground control,” JJ sung under her breath.

“Exactly,” Sheppard offered a small grin. Seeing the confused look on the boy’s face he said, “It’s an old song, Kyle, have your mom play it for you later.” He paused, “So Ground Control was the pilot, and I was the copilot, my friend Mitch was our medic, and Dex was our explosives specialist, and Dutch was our tech guy and Piano Man was our sniper. We had a pretty rough landing, getting all bruised up, and knew that we’d have to walk back to our base. But the problem was that, even if the weather had been nice, and we’d all been in tip-top shape, the walk back to somewhere safe would have taken a week. With the blizzard and everything else, it took us almost a month to get back safe.”  
Spencer sucked in a breath, and Morgan let out a hiss, the women all flinched.

“That’s a long walk.” Kyle said.

“It was a very long walk.” Sheppard agreed, “And a scary walk, there were a lot of wolves and other scary animals around, and some bad guys around too. We actually had to sneak past a lot of bad guys to get back to our base. It was during that walk that I stepped on the trap. It was hidden under the snow, you see, and even though we were checking the snow ahead of us with a stick, and I was second in line, I was the unlucky one. It snapped closed, like this.” Sheppard raised his hands up, pressing only the base of his palms together and then snapping his fingers together to demonstrate the action of a foothold trap. 

“Ouch!” Kyle exclaimed.

“Yeah, it was pretty ouchy,” Sheppard agreed, “Luckily though, we were only about four days away from the base at that point, and the ice and snow kept it from getting too infected. We all finished up the walk back to base and were ushered in to see the doctors, and we all got better.” Spencer noticed the sad look in Sheppard’s eyes, and sincerely doubted that everyone had gotten “better”.

“Oh, cool story, I’m glad everyone was okay.” Kyle nodded, and Sheppard offered him a sad smile back. Luckily the boy hadn’t noticed, having spotted something behind their table. “UNCLE LOU!!!” He shouted exuberantly, scrambling off of his mother’s lap and tackling the tall, slim man. 

The entire table turned to look at the man standing there, swinging Kyle in circles.

“Huh. Hey Miller,” Sheppard greeted the man calmly. 

Miller on the other hand, jumped and flailed a bit, nearly dropping his nephew in the process. Spencer watched, biting his lip to stop himself from laughing as the man finally managed to get the clinging child into a position where he could salute- hanging on to his back.

“Colonel Sheppard, Sir!” Miller barked out, flushed.

“Captain Miller,” Sheppard returned, not bothering to rise from his chair as he saluted (well it was more of a wave towards his forehead). “Why are you saluting me when we’re both in civvies and there’s no brass around? I thought we’d all talked about this.” He scolded teasingly. 

Miller’s face just got redder. “Yes Sir.” Was his strangled reply as his nephew tightened his grip around his throat.

“You’re Colonel Sheppard!?!” Kyle’s voice screeched out, half incredulous and half excitement.

Sheppard blinked, “Yes?” He answered, puzzled.

“You can’t be Colonel Sheppard; you said your name was John.” Kyle accused, climbing off his uncle.

“Sheppard is my last name, Kyle, my first name is John.” 

“Oh My God! You’re a superhero!” Kyle stage whispered the last word, looking around furtively, as if villains were around the corner.

Spencer glanced at Sheppard, the man looked poleaxed. And Miller had a video camera out and was recording this; apparently the man didn’t want to be promoted again anytime soon.

“I’m a what!” Sheppard’s voice cracked on the last note. 

“A superhero! You’re Colonel Sheppard ‘The Man Who Can Fly Anything’. And you and your team of superheroes work together to make The Magic City safe from the evil terrorists.” Kyle started hopping around performing mock-karate moves.

“…” Sheppard just stared blankly at the child for a moment before glaring full force at Miller who squeaked in fear. 

“Team?” Morgan queried, flashing an insolent grin at Sheppard when the man’s eyes cut to him.

“Yeah!” Kyle radiated in his excitement at being able to talk about what looked to be his favorite subject. “There’s Ronon the Barbarian and Teyla the Warrior Princess and Big Brain McKay! And together they go on a-ventures and fight evil terrorists and ogres and dragons to keep The Magic City safe!”

“Miller, if you’ve said anything that violates your confidentiality agreement I’ll have your ass in Gitmo so fast they’ll think you teleported there.” Sheppard snapped, the anger in his voice clear as he slouched back into his seat. 

Miller went sheet white, “N-no Sir, I-I n-n-never said a-anything to violate m-my confidentiality agreement. Sir.” Spencer was impressed, despite the fact that the he was shaking like a leaf under Sheppard’s cold gaze, Miller was still standing at attention.

“You better not have, Miller, and I will be reporting this to General O’Neill, it’s up to him what happens after that.” Sheppard’s voice was cold, hard, and as emotionless as his expression.

“John?” Kyle whispered, desperately confused. His mother was staring at Sheppard wide-eyed, and had the boy wrapped in her arms. The child’s father was standing behind them, holding a little girl of about two in his arms protectively.

“Oh, hey buddy,” Sheppard’s voice and features softened immediately, “I’m not mad at you, I promise. And I want to hear all about those stories your Uncle Lou told you, alright?”  
The boy nodded, still a bit wary. Spencer didn’t blame him, he himself was a bit wary- Sheppard was terrifying when he was angry. 

“Good lad,” Sheppard paused then muttered under his breath, “I have got to stop spending so much time with Beckett.” He paused, “How about, tomorrow I take your whole family out to eat for lunch- your mom and dad, your sister and even Uncle Lou? Then you can tell me all about the stories your Uncle told you okay? Maybe I can tell you a new story or two, too? Maybe I’ll bring a friend along.” Spencer noticed that Sheppard had glanced up to make sure that was okay with his family, giving them a grin when they’d nodded.

“Are you really a superhero, Colonel Sheppard?” Kyle asked curiously after he’d finished nodding his head excitedly.

“Nope, I’m just a regular guy doing my job, buddy.”

“Oh my God,” Kyle whispered reverently, “You really are the real Colonel Sheppard, Mark isn’t ever gonna believe this! You even have the wonky hair.” He added as an afterthought.

Sheppard looked at the child bemusedly, before noticing that Miller was wincing at that statement. Looking at Kyle’s parents Sheppard smiled and said, “Why don’t you guys start your day I need to speak with Captain Miller here for a minute or two.”

Spencer heard the captain swallow audibly, as he handed off his video camera to the father. Sheppard didn’t twitch from his spot, genial smile firmly in place, relaxed in his chair. After the family left, Sheppard slowly turned his head to look at Miller. With the calm, cool way he was looking at him Spencer thought Sheppard rather looked like a big cat debating whether pouncing this piece of prey was worth it.

Sheppard stood, a deceptively calm, smooth motion which brought him from relaxed sprawl to upright and predatory in an instant. Spencer suppressed a shiver as the man literally stalked over to the terrified captain. Clapping his hand on the back of Miller’s neck in a tight grip, Sheppard offered them all a bit of a feral grin, and Miller cringed, as he steered him off, “Let’s go… talk in my room Captain.” 

As the two retreated from the dining room, JJ whispered, “Whoa,” fanning herself.

“That was hot.” Prentiss agreed.

Spencer just hummed, not agreeing or disagreeing, but shifted to adjust his pants a bit.

Morgan sputtered a bit, “That wasn’t hot, that was creepy!”

“No that was totally hot, Morgan.” JJ argued. 

“Yeah, you know before this I never understood why half of the girls at FLETC with us used to stare at him non-stop.” Prentiss commented.

“Because he’s sex on a stick,” JJ murmured, blushing when they all turned to look at her. “Just because I have Will, doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate a good looking man.”

“I knew he was good looking, but it’s more the amount of power and self-control he exudes. It seems to pour out of him, especially when he’s mad.” Prentiss observed.

“Still creepy, man, the way he switched from mad to calm whenever he spoke to the kid.” Morgan disagreed.

“I found it sweet,” Spencer decided to put forth his opinion, “That he didn’t want to scare the child. If you’d paid attention, he was angry the entire time, he just hid it after the child spoke up.”

“Creepy.” Morgan insisted one last time, and the group returned to their food, certain that it would be a while before they saw Sheppard again.

***

It was 10:30 before Sheppard arrived at the station, and to look at him you’d think everything was perfectly fine. Spencer guessed it wasn’t, but knew not to ask (Sheppard wouldn’t tell him what had happened anyway), as did Prentiss, JJ had taken the scolding to heart earlier, Morgan still thought that Sheppard was creepy and Rossi had no idea what had happened over breakfast, so for today he was safe from interrogation.

Spencer was just finishing the last of the equations on his geographical profile, despite what the others thought, it was far more complicated than coloring in shapes on a map. “Finished,” he announced.

“What’ve you got for us Reid?” Rossi questioned, looking away from Sheppard who had been pointedly ignoring him.

“Not much I’m afraid, he’s been fairly smart so far. After mapping all of the available data points, including known abduction sites and dump sites, the only thing I was able to find is that the unsub began further out and is slowly marching in, centered around Colorado Springs. His first know abduction was almost two hundred miles away in Sterling, and he dumped the body in Montrose. As time goes on he clearly becomes more confident, even taking Officer Johns from Colorado Springs itself. From the pattern we can tell that the last seven victims have all been taken and dumped within a fifty mile radius from Colorado Springs, but until I have more data, I can’t tell you where in Colorado Springs he’s located; just that he’s somewhere within city limits. Sorry.”

“No you did great, Reid, at least we know what city he’s operating out of.” Prentiss comforted.

“We already knew that.” Salazar pointed out dryly.

“No, we suspected, now we’re certain.” Morgan interjected, “Anyone have anything else to add.”

“Just that I need to go bug the ME about something,” Sheppard muttered distractedly, getting up and wandering out of the room, holding a couple evidence photos in his hands.

The rest of the team blinked at each other and shrugged, heading back to work digging through papers trying to find more evidence. They were interrupted about a half an hour later by a knock on the door frame.

Spencer looked up to see that it was a tall, well-built blonde man knocking. His blue eyes were red-rimmed, and he looked like he hadn’t slept in a week. “I am Stabsunteroffizier Schmidt, Colonel Sheppard call me.” He had a thick German accent, “The detective say he would be in here?” 

“He went downstairs for a minutes, I’ll call him back up for you.” Rossi smiled at the man, moving off to call Sheppard.

“Danke. I appreciate.” He settled in to wait, leaning against the wall with his feet crossed.

Spencer watched the man, seeing the grief in his eyes and the weariness in his body. The man, Orsini’s lover he remembered, looked ready to fall to pieces. When they all heard footsteps approaching from down the hall, the look of overwhelming relief on the man’s face was heart-breaking, as if his entire world now depended on the man in front of him to keep it intact. 

“Colonel,” Schmidt’s voice broke, and he looked as if he was moments away from tears.

“Hansi,” Sheppard murmured, looking at the man concernedly. Schmidt’s face crumpled, and he stumbled forward to sob into Sheppard’s shoulder. Sheppard blinked in surprise, stiffening. He relaxed after a few moments, wrapping one arm around the crying soldier. “Shh, I have you, kiddo, shh. Let me find us somewhere to speak.”

Spencer watched sadly as Sheppard led the heart-broken soldier out of the room, taking him to Salazar’s office, kicking the detective out of the room and closing the door. The sound of sobbing could be heard from inside the office, as well as the low murmur of Sheppard’s voice, comforting Schmidt.

“What was that?” Salazar wandered into the office confused.

“That was our last victim’s partner.” Morgan told him, “He isn’t doing too well apparently.”

“I can see that.” Salazar frowned, “Still don’t mean he can kick me out of my own office.”

“You’d rather have the guy sobbing in the bullpen?” Rossi raised his eyebrow.

“Well, no.” Salazar began.

“Then there you are.” Rossi interjected, making Salazar scowl. Rossi just shrugged in response. Salazar sighed and sat down at the table with them

They settled back in to continue combing through the victim’s pasts, where they hung out, ate at, shopped. A couple of the men had kept journals. Garcia was checking out their spending habits back in Quantico, and analyzing the various personal computers of the victims. So far there still wasn’t any crossover.

They worked for a few hours before Sheppard and Schmidt emerged from Salazar’s office. Schmidt’s eyes were red, and Sheppard had a rather obvious wet patch on his shoulder, but other than that they both looked fine. “If anyone like to talk to me about Paolo, I will do that now.” Schmidt told them.

“I’ll do that,” Morgan spoke up, “Prentiss?”

“Sure.” She stood up, “We’re taking you’re office again Detective.” 

Salazar huffed as the three exited the room. “Well.” 

Spencer discreetly rolled his eyes; the detective was a bit uptight. Sheppard caught him, however, giving him a mischievous grin and a wink. Spencer blushed, making Sheppard’s grin widen. Spencer cleared his throat, “What did you find out at the coroner’s Sheppard?”

“I noticed two things when I was looking at the evidence photos from the Hernandez file. One, if you’re slicing into flesh repeatedly, even as shallowly as the unsub is, your knife gets dull very quickly, as anyone who hunts can tell you. Depending on the quality of the knife you’d get between fifteen and a couple hundred cuts in before the knife would have to be sharpened or changed out. I wondered, when I was looking at the files, if the ME could see the progression of how sharp the knife is, so I went down to check to see if we could determine what area the unsub is cutting first. She could, depending on the age and quality of the wounds. He starts at the ankles and works up to the knees, then the wrists to the elbows, back, upper legs and buttocks, upper arms, chest, then the hands and feet, and finally the pelvis and genitals before branding and killing his victim.

“I also noticed that on the earlier victims, the cuts were deeper, and not as evenly spaced, and he also avoided the most delicate areas where arteries are closest to the skin. He was also too practiced, none of the cuts on Hernandez had any hesitation marks or ragged edges; I’d say, that he isn’t the first victim. In fact, the only thing on Hernandez that showed any sort of hesitation was the brand. It was probably his first time using it, and the earlier victims weren’t branded, so they weren’t connected. The pattern supports this, it’s extremely rare for an unsub to just set a pattern and stick to it from the very first time, especially one this rigid.” Sheppard showed them the photos of the cuts and brand on the bodies, and one by one they agreed with his conclusions; although Salazar looked like he had no idea what they were talking about.

“Good find Johnny,” Rossi commented absentmindedly, flipping through Shaughnessy’s receipts.

“Thanks,” Sheppard drawled, “Now I’m going to go find us all lunch. Paperwork isn’t my thing.”

“I’ll come with you; I’ve finished my stack already.” Spencer offered. At the other’s glares he simply gave them an innocent grin, “What?” They all backed down.

“Sure. What do you feel like today?” Sheppard asked as they headed out of the precinct.

“Not Asian. We had that yesterday, and the day before that and the day before that. It’s our go to when we’re on a case.” He explained at Sheppard’s look.

“Eh, it’s cool with me; trust me when I say I understand the same foods over and over getting old. Italian?” Sheppard asked as they climbed in the car.

“No, Rossi always complains whenever we get Italian, says it isn’t real Italian. Middle Eastern?”

“Sure, I could go for some fatayer or kibbeh. There’s a great place not too far from the hotel, I used to eat there a lot when I was stationed here. Their baklava is to die for.”

“Sounds great, I love baklava.” Spencer grinned.

“Who doesn’t?” Sheppard grinned back, “You know, one of the tribes of people we’re stationed near make this sweet nut pastry that’s a lot like baklava for their major celebrations. I swear, the first time I went to one of their harvest festivals I ate my weight in it. They call it gendri. That stuff is addicting.”

Spencer laughed, “Sounds good, you’ll have to bring me some someday.”

“It’s a deal.” They rode in a comfortable silence for a few minutes, enjoying the break. “What sorts of TV shows do you watch?”

“I enjoy science fiction, mostly. Some comedy, some documentaries.” Spencer considered, “I’m not a big fan of drama, too much like my day to day life.”

Sheppard laughed, “Agreed. I enjoy sci fi and comedies too. Whenever we get a shipment in everyone on base crowds around the rec room to see the new shows and movies we got sent. The biggest hits basewide, by far, are Scrubs, The Big Bang Theory, and Eureka. My favorite of those is The Big Bang Theory it’s just enough sci fi and comedy combined to make me laugh until I cry.”

“That’s a great show; I always make sure to record it. I tried watching it with my teammates once, but they didn’t understand half the references, or why someone would want a Cylon Toaster.”

“I do, don’t tell anyone, but I have a Tardis Teapot.” Sheppard smiled bashfully as Spencer laughed hysterically, joining in after a moment.

Spencer shook his head as he caught his breath, “That’s almost as bad as my R2-D2 Footlocker. You don’t look like a geek, Sheppard, but you sure sound like one.”

“Trust me Reid, I’m a geek from way back, I just don’t advertise the fact that I’ve seen or read almost every classic science fiction show, movie or book available.” Sheppard grinned as they parked, and Spencer felt his heart flutter, just a bit. He wondered if he was developing acid reflux, because it was not a crush.

Entering the restaurant, the heady scent of spices and incense mingled with the aroma of cooking meat. “Welcome! Welcome!” boomed a heavyset Middle Eastern man in a thick accent and an apron, smiling broadly at them, “I am owner and cook, Baqi. What can I get for you today?” 

Spencer blinked as Sheppard stepped forward and proceeded to speak to the man in fluent Arabic. They conversed for several minutes, speaking to one another amicably before the man laughed at something Sheppard had said, replying through his laughs. Sheppard grinned, turning to Spencer, “What do you want to eat? I figured I’d order a variety of kebabs for everyone else, some fatayer, kibbeh, falafel, hummus, tabouleh, couscous, and of course baklava.”

Spencer blinked, “That sounds fine. Maybe some baba ghanoush?”

“Of course, of course!” Baqi boomed, “Any friend of the good Colonel’s is a friend of mine. Besides, like I tell him, you are too skinny, need fattening up.” 

Spencer couldn’t think of anything to say, luckily he didn’t seem to be required to say anything. “I was retelling him an old joke, from when I was in here practically every day, we had a bit of a running gag going, joking about how we should solve the war in the Middle East by stuffing the Taliban with good food so they stopped being so cranky and were too full to move.” Sheppard murmured into his ear. Spencer nodded smiling at the imagery, and pleased he hadn’t been made fun of.

They settled in to wait at one of the tables as their food was prepared, talking quietly. Their main topic of conversation was classic science fiction and the development of the genre. After a bit they switched to the various math and physics mistakes in their favorite series, as well as the technological ideas and predictions displayed in the series before they were available in the mainstream.

Thirty minutes later they were back in the car with their mouths watering and their stomachs growling as the aroma of the food surrounded them. It was taking all of Spencer’s will power not to reach into one of the bags to pull out a lamb kebob or a piece of baklava. He could tell that Sheppard also wanted to. Luckily they weren’t that far from the precinct.

Pulling in they unloaded the food and headed back to their conference room, where the team, Salazar and Schmidt were all eagerly awaiting their food. Schmidt was apparently going to go home with someone who was coming in to see them after lunch. Digging in they kept the conversation light, staying away from discussing the case in deference to Schmidt’s presence.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you once again to my amazingly awesome beta Evelyna.

John sighed; this was not how he enjoyed spending his day. He was angry due to the fact that one of his men had been killed; depressed because it reminded him of the anniversary of his own loss which was coming up all too soon; and he had a serious headache because the profilers kept giving him paperwork to read with a teeny-tiny font and letters that kept moving around in an attempt to find some location connecting each of the victims, that John honestly didn’t think they’d find. 

It was frustrating as all hell, and he was about ready to snap and hit something. He could tell that Schmidt, who was resting on the couch that Morgan and he had squeezed into the conference room, had sensed his mood and was watching him warily. Reid had too, if the fact that the man had grabbed half of his stack of papers surreptitiously was any hint.

The rest of the profilers seemed oblivious, although John suspected they were merely pretending, to his restlessness and frustration. John sighed again, resting his chin on his hand, trying to figure out what the hell he was reading. It wasn’t working; it hadn’t been working for the last two hours either.

“Okay, I’m done with this. No more, find me something besides paperwork to do.” John shoved the stack of papers away.

“Still don’t like paperwork sir?” A familiar voice said dryly from the doorway.

John looked up at the door, grinning “Stacks.”

“Colonel, Schmidt, other people.” Stackhouse greeted them deadpan, and John smirked at the looks on the agents’ and the detective’s faces. 

“Sergeant,” Schmidt nodded and John saw Stackhouse look the other man over in concern. He also saw the profilers taking note of it.

John decided to draw attention back to himself, “Sergeant, these are Special Agents Emily Prentiss, David Rossi, Jennifer Jareau, Derek Morgan, Dr. Spencer Reid and Detective Carl Salazar.” They all nodded at each other in turn. “Everyone this is my Top,” John purposefully paused for a moment, “Sergeant David Stackhouse.”

Stackhouse snorted and Schmidt let out a bark of laughter, covering his mouth with his hand. The BAU agents and the detective all looked absolutely flabbergasted.

“Sir,” Stackhouse’s voice was tight as he attempted to hold back his laughter, “You have got to stop introducing me like that.”

“Like what?” John asked innocently, noticing that Rossi and Salazar had caught on to the joke (he had guessed they would figure it out first, being retired military).

“Sir, you nearly gave General Landry a heart attack.” Stackhouse noted with his typical droll tone.

“O’Neill thought it was funny.” John pointed out, noticing when Reid got the joke. The others still looked mildly horrified.

“That’s because you and O’Neill were best friends in another life, sir. You have extremely similar senses of humor.” Stackhouse’s voice couldn’t have gotten any drier if he’d tried.

Schmidt was in hysterics in the corner, which was what John had intended. Rossi and Salazar both looked amused, if a bit befuddled; while Reid was grinning broadly. John felt his stomach tighten as he looked over at Reid, and absently wondered if maybe he should have skipped that sixth piece of baklava at lunch. The other BAU agents looked absolutely baffled, and John barely kept himself from smirking.

Reid noticed his teammates faces, and still grinning, explained, “In the military, the highest ranked non-commissioned officer on a base is typically referred to as the ‘Top Sergeant’. The term is also a synonym for First Sergeant. I assume that Sergeant Stackhouse fits one of these descriptions.”

“Both actually.” Stackhouse responded before looking at John, “I received an interesting message from Moore, sir, saying you wanted to see me?”

“Yeah,” John looked over at Salazar, “We’re taking your office again detective.” Then he waved at Stackhouse to follow him. 

Entering Salazar’s office John looked Stackhouse over, wondering how to phrase things without breaking any rules. He began with a sigh, “Look, Stacks, first thing, this entire conversation is off the record.”

“Yes sir.” Stackhouse agreed.

“Second thing, right now, I’m John and you’re David.”

“Yes s- John.”

John smirked; he knew how awkward it was when a superior officer told you to call them by their first name instead of by their rank or surname. “Third thing, you remember that exceedingly awkward conversation we had about four years ago? Right after we lost Markham?”

“Yes sir.” Stackhouse answered stiffly.

“Remember how I told you I knew what it was like, losing your _best friend_? That I’d been there? And if you ever wanted to talk I’d listen?” John rubbed the back of his neck, he hated having to talk around things like this, but because of the fucking regulations and a too thin door, he couldn’t have an honest conversation with Stackhouse. After Stackhouse had nodded unhappily, he continued, “I need you to keep Schmidt with you for a couple of days, Orsini was his _best friend_ and the guy is about ready to shatter into a couple hundred pieces. Take him back to your apartment, get him drunk and let him sleep on the couch, but he needs someone there, particularly someone who understands. I’d do it, but I have to work on this case per O’Neill’s orders; and honestly, I don’t have a couch at the moment.”

“Of course, sir. John. I’ll be there for him like you were for me.” Stackhouse paused, “Moore mentioned something about the case, sir, and who the targets were.”

“Current and former military men who… prefer men,” John confirmed, trying to figure out how to phrase the next part without breaking regulations. Honestly, if they’d had privacy, John wouldn’t have watched his mouth at all, but they were too public here. He may not give a fuck if his men were together or not, but other people did. And his official policy was ‘I’m happy for you. Don’t _tell_ me shit, officially, but make sure I know about it unofficially.’ He knew there was plenty of brass out there looking for any excuse to get rid of him, and as long as he didn’t officially know anything, he was safe and could keep his men safe. Finally he decided on, “If you… know of… anybody in the area who might fit that general description I’d… appreciate it if you could warn them.”

Luckily, he and Stackhouse had been working together long enough that Stackhouse knew exactly what he meant. “Yes sir.”

“Good.” The two men sat in comfortable silence, both collecting their thoughts. They’d worked together for five years now, and Stackhouse had been the Senior Non-Com since Bates had been shipped home injured after the Siege. They not only had a good working relationship, but had become friendly, if not exactly friends, over the years, both having lost lovers to combat. 

It helped that after Stackhouse had lost his lover John had dragged Stackhouse back to his place, gotten him wasted, let him sob on his shoulder, and then tucked him in on John’s couch. For almost two weeks. Then the Siege happened, and they got a little busy. It wasn’t the last time a member of the expedition had crashed on John’s couch. In fact, over the years, “The Colonel’s Couch” had become a standing tradition on Atlantis. Anyone who lost someone close to them (whether it was Sergeant Yamato after his grandmother had died, or Lieutenant Crown when her best friend from high school died, or Dr. Corrigan after he lost his lover, or Teyla after Charin passed away) knew that they could go to John’s quarters and talk to him or cry on him or scream until they fell asleep, and he wouldn’t breathe a word of it. That he’d been there and done that, and would sit there and listen, and then pour them drinks until they slept that first night (but not any night after, it wasn’t good to depend on alcohol); or almost anything else they needed- only comfort sex and expecting John to talk about his past and/or feelings was out (but he’d gladly listen). 

The Colonel’s Couch was right up there with Story Showcase, Movie Night, Heritage Day, and Field Day as far as Atlantis traditions went. Essentially sacred.  
John and Stackhouse sat quietly for a while, collecting their thoughts and praying that they’d catch this maniac before he killed again. Eventually John sighed and stood up, Stackhouse automatically standing as well. “Come on, Stacks, time to go back and battle the beast.”

Stackhouse blinked, “Beast sir?” He followed John out of the borrowed office and towards the conference room.

“Yeah paperwork.” John sighed miserably at the thought as he entered the conference room. Stackhouse let out a snort of laughter behind him. Glancing around the room, John turned to where Schmidt was still sitting on the couch with his head in his hands. “Schmidt.” He began, waiting to continue until the man had looked up and focused on him. “I’m sending you home with Stackhouse for the next little while. He’ll watch out for you okay kiddo?” He watched as Schmidt nodded numbly at him, and glanced over at Stackhouse, catching his eye. Stackhouse nodded sharply, he’d watch out for Schmidt and make sure the kid didn’t sink into depression.

John smiled sadly at the kid, and he really was a kid, only twenty-five. “I’m sorry I don’t have a couch at the moment Hans, otherwise I’d be taking you home with me. So instead of ‘The Colonel’s Couch’ you’re getting the Sergeant’s sofa.” Schmidt let out a strangled laugh, and Stackhouse smiled. “He was my first guest, and he’s been there a couple of times now, so he knows what to do, okay?” At Schmidt’s nod, he held out a hand and helped the kid off of the couch, passing him over to Stackhouse.

“C’mon Schmidt, let’s get out of here,” Stackhouse murmured, wrapping an arm around Schmidt’s shoulder and leading him out of the conference room with a nod and a wave at John. He watched through the door as the two men headed out of the building.

John sighed as he sat back down, staring forlornly at the stack of paper in front of him. He hated reading, and reading hated him. The only reason he’d brought War and Peace on the expedition was so he could stay in practice, otherwise he stuck to audiobooks. Hell, he even had adaptive technology on his computer so that it would transcribe his oral reports into digital format, and read aloud the ones that were sent to him or anything else he had to read on the computer. It was one of the things he loved about Atlantis- everything was digital. In the past, he’d had to have friends transcribe his reports for him or read him briefings and memos if they were in a rush. Trying to read the teeny tiny print of Lopez’s bank statements was doing nothing to help his headache or frustration levels. Nor was it helping the case any, since he only read about fifty words per minute on average (seventy on a good day, thirty on a bad day; and today was not a good day).

Finally John sighed, “Okay, look, if you guys want me to get anything useful done, having me look through papers isn’t going to be it. What else is there for me to do?”

“What’s wrong with what you’re already doing?” Salazar questioned, sneering. John could practically hear him thinking that he was just another lazy officer leaving everyone else to do the work. It was a common thought among enlisted men (and in some cases not all that wrong, to be honest), but John wasn’t lazy despite common misconceptions. He gave every action 110%, and expected his men to do the same, and he wouldn’t make any of them do anything he wouldn’t do, and they knew it. He might be laidback, but he wasn’t lazy.

John chose to ignore the sneering detective, turning instead to Rossi, who was functioning as unit chief while their regular one was in the hospital. “Rossi, I know you guys did a background check. You do realize how stupid it is to have me going through paperwork, right?”

Rossi looked at him, puzzled, for a few moments, before his face cleared up and he nodded chagrinned. John noticed that Reid had been squirming in his seat adorably, while Rossi had been trying to figure out, obviously trying to keep from blurting out the answer. That thought made John pause, ‘adorably’, he mentally shook his head, and he needed to get more sleep.

Obviously JJ had recalled why his going through paperwork was a bad idea too, as she asked “If you don’t do well with paperwork, how’d you go through all those files yesterday morning?”

“I only had the paper files printed out in case there was something I needed to show you guys, the files I actually used were on my computer, and I have adaptive technology on it to ensure I could ‘read’ them.” John explained.

“Wait, what?” Salazar was baffled.

“I’m severely dyslexic.” John explained shortly, he wasn’t ashamed, but he wasn’t a sharing kind of guy. “I read about 50 words per minute on average. The average adult reads about 250 words per minute. Do the math.”

“Oh.” Salazar said quietly.

“Yes, oh. Now, is there anything else for me to do? Preferably something that involves movement.”

The FBI agents seemed to be looking at each other and trying to figure out what to do with John, while Salazar was steadfastly looking at his stack of papers and pretending to ignore John and the others. John glanced at his watch and bit back a groan, it was only 1600.

Before any ideas could be suggested John’s phone began to ring. John blinked, trying to place the sound (five months on Earth and he still wasn’t used to cell phones), before realizing it came from his pocket. With a frown he pulled out his cell and flipped it open.

“Sheppard.”

“Oh my God sir, save me!”

John blinked, and then rolled his eyes, “What’ve you done now Lorne?”

“It’s not me sir.” Lorne protested vehemently, his voice half exasperated and half amused in the way only Lorne could manage. “It’s the scientists. I’m going to shoot them all. Seriously, sir, save me!”

“What have they done now?” John sat back in his chair and kicked back, putting his feet on a clear spot of the conference table. He ignored the curious looks that the rest of the room threw him, knowing that Lorne was speaking too quietly for them to hear. (And even if he screamed bloody murder the adjustments the Atlantis scientists made to secure the thing meant that they would still only hear it as a muffled voice, unless he used a code word to put the receiving phone on speaker for emergencies. John didn’t know how they had done that, and didn’t want to know.)

“Sir, not only am I dealing with daily explosions from the Physics and Engineering Departments, both literal and figurative, but Computer Sciences has taken to entertaining itself by hacking into various government agencies in order to solve bets based on various conspiracy theories and mysteries. Sir, seriously, they found out who killed Kennedy the other day. Most of the Ecology, Geology, and Geography department is teaming up with Oceanography and Botany, sir. To do something involving picket signs they were trying to hide when I went down to remind Margolis that her leave is coming up. Zoology lost the fucking mini near-deer things somewhere in the city. Again. Seriously, sir, this is the fourteenth time they’ve lost those stupid things in a year. Last time one ended up in the desalinization tanks and we couldn’t drink the tap water for 48 hours because it got caught in a churner and we were fishing guts out of the tap. Let me just kill the things this time sir, I don’t care if the zoologists cry!”

“Yeah, sure, why not.” John decides after a moment, he won’t have to deal with the fallout and cold shoulders from the scientists this time, he’s not on base. “Go ahead and shoot to kill, Lorne.”

“Oh my God, thank you sir.” Lorne’s voice was relieved, and John really did get why- those mini near-deer were the stupidest, most annoying creatures that John had ever set eyes on. Unfortunately they were cute, and cuddly, so a lot of the civilians on base liked them as pets. 

“Anything else exciting happening?” John asked ignoring the stricken looks at his order to shoot to kill.

“Dr. Jackson is here.” Lorne sounded pained, and John hid a wince. The last time Jackson had visited he’d managed to find a seriously twisted botany lab that everyone called the Defensive Herbology Lab, since there were so many carnivorous plants in there (and way too many Harry Potter fans on base); a torture chamber, complete with body parts in jars, torture implements and blood stains, from an Ancient serial killer in one of the remote personal quarters (John had puked violently after seeing it and hadn’t slept for a week); and an experimental genetics lab with stasis-preserved specimens, including random crosses between species that were absolutely idiotic. Most of the expedition still couldn’t watch Monty Python and the Holy Grail without cringing (or in some cases crying) at the Killer Rabbit of Caerbannog scene. Then he’d found the Attero device.

“Oh God, what now?” John tried not to whine and cringe, but Jackson was a menace when he was left alone on the city, or with McKay.

“He’s only been here for 40 hours sir, and he’s already found another “Ascend or Die” machine and a Milky Way style DNA resequencer in the same room.” Panic shot through John, if Jackson ended up ascending again or dying, Lorne’s and his careers were over. “He did not turn them on or set them off, thank God.” Relief flooded through John as Lorne reassured him, and he could hear Lorne’s relief as well. “The next room over had a disease lab, like the Nanovirus lab, but all biological diseases. The Chemistry and Genetics department is having a field day trying to identify everything.

“We’re also pretty sure he managed to find an Ancient beauty parlor, based on the hack job it gave Sorokin and Balfour when they were exploring it. Either that or it’s where the Ancients stored their wall-mounted weed whackers.” Lorne told him drolly. John couldn’t help but snicker at the image. Sorokin and Balfour were anthropologists from Russia and Scotland, respectively, and they were both obsessed with their hair. Sorokin had chin-length blonde hair, and Balfour had hair down his back in a ponytail like he was the Highlander or something.

“Take pictures.” John ordered.

“Already did sir. I’ll email them to you later.” Lorne told him.

“Thanks Lorne, I could use the laugh. Has he done anything else?” John asked.

“He found another experimental lab for plants, trying to breed some sort of sex pollen in this one. Apparently the Ancients had issues remembering that they needed to procreate, so they decided that breeding a plant to put all over the City that would make them have mindless sex whenever it bloomed.” Lorne offered his disgust clear. “Parrish wants to write a paper about it, even though they failed.”

“Thank God.” John said relieved. Who the hell thought making a plant to roofie citizens into fucking was a good idea? 

“Also a Nanite Construction Lab, which is used to repair equipment, kind of like a Star Trek Replicator. You put the broken thing in and feed it the necessary raw materials, and boom, good as new sir.”

“Sweet,” John nearly crowed, that was the answer to their prayers. Well, some of them.

“I know sir! We’ve already started using it to repair the drives. McKay was about ready to kiss Jackson when they figured out what it was for. Says that this means we can repair the wormhole drive now.”

John looked up at the ceiling, “Thank you.”

“Sir?” Lorne questioned.

“Just thanking whatever deity is in the area Lorne.”

“Yes sir.” Lorne said voice bland (which meant he was trying not to laugh).

“Is that everything?” John asked, hoping it was.

“Hold on a moment sir, I’m getting an update now.” Lorne put the phone on hold. John snorted when Lorne’s “hold” music began to play the Steve Miller Band’s _The Joker_. After a moment he realized he was humming along, when he caught sight of Rossi, Morgan and Salazar’s amused smirks. He purposely ignored them, knowing that stopping would show them weakness, and he tried to avoid showing anyone weakness if he could.

“Sir?” Lorne came back on the line, sounding revolted.

“Lorne.” John confirmed, wary.

“We found, oh God,” Lorne’s voice moved away from the phone, and John distantly heard the sound of retching. Returning to the phone Lorne continued, despaired, “He also found some sort of medical lab where their twisted scientists were experimenting on humans to find both the secrets to ascension and a way to stop the Wraith from feeding on humans. It makes Mengele look like a pediatrician sir.”

“God,” John said desolately. And some people thought the Ancients were gods.

“Sir, they were experimenting on children,” Lorne sounded as if he might be sick again, “They just left the bodies of the ‘failed experiments’ in a pile in the next room. It’s a charnel house, sir; Biro’s sorting through the remains now, and says that based on the bones most of the victims were between age 4 and 8.” They were both silent for a minute.

“How many victims Evan?” John asked, removing his feet from the table and leaning forward to put his head in his hand.

“The current estimate is between 80 and 100, sir.”

“Find somewhere for us to give them a proper burial, Lorne. They don’t deserve to rot there. Make sure that Biro documents the cause of death in each case thoroughly, so that we can determine whether they were legitimate experiments or another twisted mind who got off on torturing people, like the last guy. Because if this was sanctioned research, we’ll have some problems.” John rubbed his forehead. 

Most of the SGC and almost all of the IOA had this twisted view that the Ancients were infallible. That any problems with any Ancient technology were due to misuse, and not due to faults of the Ancients. They didn’t deify them, but they certainly sanctified them. Most of the Atlantis expedition had learned differently, but many still treated the Ancients as if they could do no wrong. Elizabeth Weir had been a prime example of that, she’d believed the Ancients to be divine- all-knowing and all powerful and unwilling to allow their “descendants” to be harmed. She’d believed that until the day she died due to one of their creations. If, no when the SGC and IOA found out about this, it would send them into an uproar, especially if this had been a legitimate project instead of a rogue one.

They’d barely believed the serial killer’s torture chamber Jackson and McKay had found last time, and only referred to it as a fluke, one sick individual who needed help. They didn’t see that the Ancients were all sick in a way- they created terrible things, and then left them lying around where anyone could find it, including children. Just look at the Shadow creature, the nanovirus, the Asurans, the explosive tumor machine, the ascension machine, and so many more- the Ancients didn’t care about anybody, only about science. They’d all basically been psychopaths, they felt no remorse for their crimes, and continued to commit them galaxy after galaxy. Their only rule was not to interfere in the lives of “lesser” beings, yet they’d still done so- just look at the social experiment that he and Rodney had stumbled upon and almost destroyed a planet with thinking it was like The Sims. They were cowards- they ran from the Ori in their home galaxy, the plague in the Milky Way, and the Wraith in Pegasus, and then from life altogether.

To have had this sort of experimentation on small children be legitimate would blow most of Earth’s views of the Ancients out of the water. They denied that the Ancients could have been responsible for the creation of the Wraith (although most of Atlantis secretly thought so), that there was no way there had been an Ancient serial killer (that was something reserved for humans), that their machines didn’t work properly (that was the fault of the ATA carrier not using it properly) or that they’d made mistakes. Those who lived in Atlantis knew better, as did most of the Pegasus Galaxy- they honored the Ancestors, but most of the societies didn’t worship them. But Earth and most of the Milky Way revered the Ancients; saw them as either Gods or Saints.

John was dreading the upcoming discussions about this find because he knew that Earth’s initial reaction would be denial and accusations. Then fear and panic. Followed by either depression (for those that accepted that this was the truth of the Ancients) or willful ignorance (for those that refused to accept the truth), and he already knew most would choose the latter. 

John knew that one of the biggest reasons no one wanted to see the faults of the Ancients was because they were humanity’s progenitors, and no one wanted to admit that those who had created them could be fallible, wrong, ill, insane, or cowardly. John however could easily admit that his Ancient ancestors were basically psychopaths; after all his entire family tree was full of them. But others weren’t used to that, they had kind and loving parents and families, and wanted the “Godlike” beings that had created humankind to have done so with love and kindness, like the God(s) they had grown up believing in. Not to have been created as a species as an experiment, that had been forgotten about, and most likely considered a failure.

“Sir?” He heard Lorne ask, drawing his attention back to the conversation.

“Don’t worry about it Lorne, trying to figure out what we’re going to do if this was legitimate, that’s all.” 

“Yes sir.” Lorne was resigned, he too knew how difficult it would be to convince the SGC and the IOA that this hadn’t been “accidental”, that the Ancients just didn’t care if they harmed others, and they had no ethics.

“Make sure the remains are treated properly, Evan.” John pinched the bridge of his nose, “Tell Biro to try and see if theirs anyway to identify where they came from, but not to kill herself over it. I honestly don’t expect there to be a way to return them all to their people.” He took a deep breath, “Make Jackson translate the records to see if we can identify any of them. Match the “failed experiment” to the bodies if possible. When you’ve finished and found out as much information about this possible, I want all three of you to write individual reports and submit them normally and wait for the brass to contact you. Don’t go to them.” John concluded.

“Yes sir. Not a problem.” Lorne hesitated audibly.

“Spit it out Evan.” John snapped. Then sighed, “Sorry, but you know people hurting kids pisses me the fuck off.”

“I know. It’s alright sir. I just, I was hoping you’d come back and take over for me.” Lorne asked, trying to put a note of humor into his voice, obviously not honestly expecting that to happen.

“Fat chance, I’m playing cop and hunting a serial killer down, then I get leave for the first time in years. Besides, they like you more.”

“Yes sir. Good luck on the case, Stacks called and updated me. I hope you catch the son of a bitch soon.”

“Thanks Lorne, good luck keeping Jackson out of trouble and explaining that shit to the brass.” John hung up on Lorne’s groan.

He looked up at the curious faces surrounding the table, all looking at him. “Don’t ask. I can’t tell you, and you honestly probably heard too much as it is. I need to make another phone call.” John stood up and left the room, heading to Salazar’s office, which he knew would be empty.

Dialing the number he waited while it rang.

“O’Neill,” the man said, picking up on the sixth ring.

“General, it’s Colonel Sheppard.”

“Sheppard? What’s going on? Why are you calling me? Aren’t you supposed to be catching me a psycho?”

“Yes sir. But I’m calling to let you know that you should probably call Dr. Jackson, sir. I just received a status update from Lorne, and they just uncovered something very un-pretty.”

“Oh for cryin’ out loud.”

“Sorry sir. Also, I was in the room with the agents and the detective assigned to this case when I found out. I had to respond to Lorne and give him some orders. They didn’t find out anything sensitive sir, but they did overhear me telling Lorne to find somewhere to bury the bodies properly after doing everything possible to ID them. That the victims had been experimented on and that the victims were children. As well as to try and find out if they were rogue or sanctioned experiments. I am currently in a private office, but it is not secure.” John told him stiffly.

O’Neill groaned, “What the fuck happened Sheppard, because the words “children” and “experimented on” should never be in the same sentence.”

John took a deep breath, “While Dr. Jackson was exploring the base sir, he stumbled across a laboratory in which the occupant or occupants were engaging in experimentation on human children in order to find a way to… become like the inhabitants of Abydos.” John said, finding a reference he knew O’Neill would get while not giving away anything to anybody who might be spying on him. “The scientists were also attempting find a way to create some form of treatment similar to what Hoff did, with a better success rate.”

“Hoff… Hoff…” O’Neill interrupted, obviously trying to remember that mission. “Oh shit, those whack jobs that committed genocide on their own people trying to prevent the Wraith from feeding?”

“Yes sir. The children experimented on, according to the information I received, were between the ages of 4 and 8.” John heard O’Neill’s sharp intake of breath and continued. 

“The current number of victims is estimated to have been between 80 and 100. They were found in a pile in the room next to the laboratory. Colonel Lorne referred to it as a charnel house sir.”

“Hell.” O’Neill swore, obviously picturing the same thing that John had.

“I lost my head a bit sir, and ordered Lorne to find somewhere to put them to rest properly, if Biro and Jackson were unable to identify whose remains belonged to who based on the records; and that if we could find their people, we were to attempt to return the bodies to them. I also ordered that Lorne, Biro and Jackson were to write and submit individual reports, and attempt to determine the legitimacy of the experiment. I told them not to contact any of their superiors, but wait to be contacted by them. I did not refer to any details of the program, or anything else at any time, and they did not overhear enough to require any sort of confidentiality agreement, but I am sorry for my indiscretion- I allowed my emotions to cloud my judgment.”

“Sheppard, if that’s what you consider indiscreet, we’re fine. Most of us have accidently shared far more than the fact that some bodies had been found and had been experimented on, on accident. As long as you didn’t start talking about aliens and wormholes, you’re good.” John could practically hear O’Neill roll his eyes. He hadn’t thought he’d be in trouble, but he still felt better for having made sure. Better to confess and tell the truth, than have someone else tell and exaggerate.

“I’d never do that sir, no matter how emotional I am.” He assured O’Neill. “It’s just, it was kids sir. I hate people who hurt kids.”

“Me too, Sheppard.” John heard O’Neill sigh, and shuffle some stuff around. “You go ahead and get back to work on your case. I’m going to call Danny and see if he has any more information. The IOA is not going to like this; it doesn’t fit into their little box.”

“Yes sir. Have a good day.”

“Yeah, sure. You too.” O’Neill hung up the phone. 

John stayed in Salazar’s office for a few minutes, collecting his thoughts, and forcibly pushing back all of his concerns about Atlantis. He trusted Lorne to take care of everything. He turned his mind back to the case, fervently wishing he had a couple of ibuprofen, his head was still killing him. It was almost 1700, and within the next couple of hours everyone would start getting hungry again. After dinner they all had planned to go back out to check the clubs and warn the residents of Colorado Springs to be on the lookout. 

Walking back out into the bullpen, John tried not to drag his feet. He didn’t want to go back into the conference room, he hated having to sit around and wait. He’d much rather be out doing something. He noticed Reid coming out of the conference room and head over to the coffee pot. He hid a smile; the man was addicted to his coffee, just like every other scientist he’d ever met. Although, John tilted his head, he used more sugar than anyone he’d ever seen.

John decided to join the other man at the coffee pot, he liked the guy- he was smart without being conceited, funny and sweet. And he was attractive, although he didn’t seem to realize it, which only made John want him more. John shook his head mentally, since when did he want Reid? He hadn’t been interested in anyone since he’d lost Casey in Afghanistan almost six years ago. Shaking his head again, he pushed the thoughts away. He’d consider his… feelings… later. Like, when hell froze over.

“Hey,” he greeted Reid.

“Hello Colonel.” Reid shifted from one foot to the other. He was obviously trying to think of what to say as he gripped his mug to his chest.

“Sheppard,” John reminded him. “Or John,” he offered on a whim.

Reid blinked, “Call me Spencer then.”

John grinned broadly at Reid- no, Spencer. “Spencer it is.” He hesitated briefly, “Sorry about the whole paperwork thing. I know it isn’t fair to put all of that work on you guys.”

“It’s fine.” Reid- Spencer waved it away, “I realized what was happening pretty early on, but I figured I wouldn’t say anything until you did.” Re- Spencer bit his bottom lip, seeming to debate whether or not to say anything more.

“Yeah, thanks for taking some of my pile of paperwork, Spencer, I appreciate it.” John told him sincerely.

“I-uh, you’re welcome John.” Spencer stuttered back, making John smile slightly at him. John noticed that he seemed to be considering something, and looked at Spencer curiously, raising an eyebrow. “You look like you have a headache Col- John.” Spencer corrected himself, “I have some ibuprofen in my bag if you’d like some?”

“Please.” John smiled at him as he grabbed his own mug of coffee, “My head’s been pounding for a couple of hours now.”

“Sure,” Spencer agreed, and John followed him back into the conference room.

John watched as Spencer leaned over to grab his bag and placed it on his chair to dig around in. John studiously kept his eyes focused on Spencer’s face or hands, ignoring the desire to let them drift downwards. As Spencer pulled out a pill bottle with a soft “Aha” John smiled lightly.

“Thanks,” he said, relieved, as Spencer handed over the bottle. Opening it up he dumped two pills into his hand, and passed the bottle back. He swallowed the pills down with a swig of coffee.

John sat down, and put his head on his arms. No one said anything. He heard Spencer settle back into his own chair, and pick up some papers. Slowly the rest of the table also got back to work, ignoring him. John found it amusing, he knew he’d thrown everyone off their game, but no one said anything, and the ibuprofen was already kicking in. It was a nice change, back home, if he’d mentioned a headache he’d have had McKay ranting at him and/or dragging him to the infirmary certain he’d had an aneurysm, or Carson or Keller taking him in to check for concussions. Teyla would have been all concerned mother, and Ronon would have grunted at him. Eventually Lorne or Stackhouse or one of the others would discreetly pass him the ibuprofen they kept in their office, but he’d have already had to jump through hoops in the infirmary first. Here, he was calmly offered ibuprofen (without a neurological exam to make sure he was concussion free first). He knew his friends would have over-reacted because John never mentioned when he was in pain, mainly because he had a ridiculously high pain threshold thanks to his childhood, and also because he had a reputation to maintain. That didn’t mean he didn’t get headaches or stomachaches on occasion- just that he ignored them. 

About thirty minutes later John sat back up, feeling much better now that the last vestiges of his headache were gone. Sitting back up he stretched, enjoying the feeling of his muscles extending as he twisted to and fro. Rolling his neck, he heard a distinct pop, and held in a sigh in relief. That felt much better.

Looking over at the rest of the occupants of the conference room John asked, “Has anybody figured out something for me to do besides paperwork?” Silence. “Anybody?” More silence. “Bueller. Bueller.” He drawled in a monotonous tone.

The agents and Salazar cracked up. Apparently they hadn’t been expecting that. John smirked. “I’ll take the lack of responses as a no.”

“Sorry John,” Spencer apologized, “But most of what we’re doing now is paperwork. If there was anything else we’d give it to you, but there isn’t. JJ even finished preparing her press release for tomorrow morning.”

John let out a long sigh. Sadly, this wasn’t anything new. He’d spent most of his life as the odd one out when it came to any sort of paperwork or group projects. He’d always been useless until the end, when they needed someone to create the models or the diagrams or present it. Hopefully, the FBI wouldn’t make him present the case as penance for being “saddled with the retard” like the kids in school had. He didn’t think they would.

Leaning back in his chair and slouching, he made sure he projected an aura of boredom and laziness. Shrugging, he said, “It’s cool. I’ll find something to do.” He opened his laptop and plugged in a set of headphones. Checking his email he clicked the symbol that turned on the program that read to him. How the hell did he get 782 new messages in three days? Shaking his head, he listened as the mechanical voice recited each emails sender and subject, deleting the spam, and pausing every now and then to open some memo or other that was actually important. He also opened the few emails he’d received from various friends, listening to McKay’s ranting via email, Lorne’s summaries of the progress being made, and Teyla’s descriptions of Torren’s latest antics with a bark of laughter.

He ignored the curious looks being sent his way, if they wanted to know they could ask. He deleted four more spam messages (no he didn’t want *GirlzXXX* or a new vitamin guaranteed to prevent colon cancer) before opening up a message that Cameron Mitchell had sent yesterday. 

_Sheppard heard you’re in Colorado Springs. Working on some sort of cop thing, right? Cool. I’m coming to visit wherever you are with Ronon tomorrow around 1745, and the steaks are on me. Don’t worry about directions, Sam told me where the station is.  
Colonel Cameron Mitchell, USAF_

John bit back a groan as he finished listening to the message. While he was glad he’d be saved from boredom, he didn’t want Cam to say anything potentially revealing in front of a group of people trained to find such things. It didn’t even have to be something revealing about the SGC or Atlantis, because Cam was too careful for that, but about John himself. (John wasn’t worried about Ronon giving anything away; Ronon’s primary language around strangers was still grunts.) Looking at his watch John groaned; it was already 1743. Cam and Ronon would be there any minute.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again Evelyna!

Spencer looked up as Sheppard, John he reminded himself, let out a groan. He raised an eyebrow, but the man didn’t seem to notice, too busy glancing at his watch and packing up his things. 

“John?” He asked quietly.

The man looked up at him and offered a strained grin, “A local friend of mine sent an email yesterday telling me he’d pick me up for dinner tonight at 1745. Unfortunately, I only read the email a few minutes ago.”

“Oh,” Spencer considered for a moment, “The dinner’s a good thing, right?”

John seemed to be considering the question, and Spencer could see the rest of his team trying to watch them surreptitiously- the key word there being trying. “Yeah, I haven’t seen Mitchell in a while, and I miss hanging out with Ronon. What scares me is how well they’re getting along.” John offered a grin, not bothering to explain who is who.

Spencer managed to bite his tongue and not let out the questions he desperately wanted to ask (starting with “Who are Mitchell and Ronon?” and likely ending with something like “Do you want to go on a date?”) that, most likely, would not be well received. Instead he tried to shrug nonchalantly and said, “There’s no accounting for taste,” as casually as he could. Judging by Morgan’s amused smirk and JJ’s raised eyebrow, it hadn’t come out as casually as he was hoping for.

John glanced up at him and offered a small smile, “Isn’t that the truth, Spencer.” Spencer tried not to blush. As Morgan’s smirk got wider, he assumed that it didn’t work. 

Clearing his throat Spencer looked at the paperwork covered table and tried to think of something to say that he wouldn’t stutter and blush over. Before he could come up with something beyond telling John statistics about the amount of paperwork processed per year the door opened and an officer poked his head into the room.

The officer looked around at the people sitting at the table before his eyes settled on John, “Sir, you have visi-“ The man was cut off as he’s shoved out of the doorway with a squeak.

“Sheppard!” The man who shoved the officer out of the doorway grinned, sharp and feral, as he entered the conference room and prowled (there really was no other word for it) in. 

Spencer watched in awe as the enormous man practically tackled John with a wild grin. “Jesus Ronon! You saw me a few weeks ago!” John choked out.

“So?” The man’s voice was as deep as he was large.

“So put me down Chewie!” Spencer watched John try and squirm out of the other man’s bear hug, twisting to and fro. Unfortunately (or amusingly depending on one’s point of view) John was unable to get any leverage due to the fact that his feet were several inches off the ground.

The man, Ronon, laughed and apparently squeezed tighter, if John’s squeak and rapidly reddening face were any indication. Another loud laugh sounded from the doorway, Spencer looked up to see a brunette man, who could only be described as “all-American,” bent over in hysterics. 

“Christ almighty, I never thought I’d see the day! There really is someone who can actually subdue Cash.” The brunette man said while laughing. “Nice one Ronon!”

Ronon squeezed John tightly one more time, leading to John’s face becoming an even more alarming shade of red and his hands flailing, before dropping him. Spencer watched the two visiting men as they laughed at John when he stumbled upon hitting the floor and gasped a few times, trying to suck in air. 

It was disconcerting to see John being bullied and no one doing or saying anything- his team was flabbergasted and Salazar was meanly amused. He was about ready to give both visitors a piece of his mind when John’s elbow whipped out and slammed, hard, into Ronon’s solar plexus- causing the wind to be knocked out of him- and his knee hit Ronon in the hard in the groin leaving him curled up on the ground trying to breathe. Before Ronon had even hit the floor John had moved over to the brunette in the doorway and put him in a headlock, with one arm pulled up tight behind his back.

“Say ‘Uncle’ Shaft, say ‘Uncle’,” John taunted the man in his arms, as Ronon groaned on the floor.

“Uncle! Uncle already!” Shaft wheezed through the chokehold, and Spencer thought that that had to be a call sign and that this was most likely the ‘Mitchell’ John had mentioned earlier.

John let go of the man with a grin and a shove, sending him stumbling forwards. The man was red, and Ronon groaned again on the floor, twisting just enough to grab the edge of the table and starting to haul himself up.

“Forgot you went for the balls,” Ronon grunted his voice an octave higher than it was earlier.

Shaft snorted and rubbed his reddened throat, “I forgot you could move that fast.”

“That’s because you refuse to spar with me Mitchell.” John pointed out sarcastically. Spencer gave himself a mental pat on the back for having guessed the brunette man’s identity earlier.

“Yeah, cause you’re vicious, man! Last time I sparred you; you broke my nose and cracked one of my ribs.” Mitchell complained. 

“You’re the one who wanted to show off those fancy new techniques you’d learned. Wasn’t my fault they weren’t that great.” John smirked.

Spencer sat back to enjoy the show, because this was most certainly a show, being performed for them. Both men who had entered had scanned the conference room before entering, and both were obviously experienced military men who had served in combat areas recently from their bearings. Although, Ronon might be former military now that he’d thought about it, especially considering John’s conversation the day before with Colonel Carter and his comment that someone named Ronon had evaded the enemy for seven years. 

Looking back, he remembered seeing John nod and smirk covertly at Ronon before the large man had grabbed him in a bear hug, obviously tacitly giving permission now that he thought about it. And Mitchell had practically asked for it (in that alpha male way that Spencer never quite seemed to get) by taunting John’s physical prowess at being beaten by Ronon.

It was quite obvious that all three men had been playing out a scene of some sort, although to what end Spencer couldn’t yet figure out. Distraction, or proving that John could defend himself, or perhaps just messing with them? There were a hundred different reasons, and it could be any or all of them that was driving these men to put on a performance. For all he knew it could just be habit.

He’d been keeping one ear on the conversation as the three men bantered back and forth (well two men, and Ronon grunted his answers). He tuned back in to the conversation as John began the introductions.

“This is Ronon Dex, one of my teammates, and Colonel Cameron Mitchell, an old friend of mine. Guys these are Special Agents Prentiss, Jareau, Rossi, Morgan and Dr. Spencer Reid; and Detective Salazar, the case officer.” John waved at each person in turn as he introduced them. “What’s for dinner?” He turned and asked Mitchell.

“What do you want?” Mitchell replied.

“Anything but that shit you call cooking,” John snarked back.

Ronon snorted in agreement. Mitchell put on a wounded face and clasped his hands at his breast as though injured. Spencer let out a small grin; the man was obviously a bit of a ham. He reminded Spencer of Morgan in some ways, although both men would likely deny any and all similarities, as they were “one of a kind” in the words of Morgan.

With a quick look at his coworkers he could tell none of them had picked up on the fact that this is an act. It amused him briefly, attempting to calculate how long it would take each of them to catch on (Rossi in the shortest amount of time, JJ the longest) and hid a smile at the next bit of foolery. 

“You wound me!” Mitchell cried, faking a slight stagger backwards.

“Tear.” John deadpanned, raising his index finger to the corner of his eye and moving it down his cheek like a tear track. “Now where are we going for dinner? Or did you invite me to eat just to get me to cook for you?”

Ronon snorted in what Spencer thought was amusement. “Going out,” he rumbled, his voice back to normal, “Had enough of your cooking on missions.”

John rolled his eyes, “Heating up MRE stew and throwing in local roots and leaves isn’t cooking. I can actually cook quite well, as long as I have ingredients and a kitchen.”

Mitchell waggled his eyebrows, “You can use my kitchen any time you want, Sheppard, I’ve had your beef wellington and your soufflé.” He sighed, “Today, however we’re going out, and then back to my place to watch a game. You can cook next time.” He finished with a cheeky grin.

Spencer added “accomplished cook” to his list of John’s traits. Anyone who could successfully cook both beef wellington and soufflé, considered difficult recipes, was good in the kitchen. He slotted the fact in below “sci-fi fan” for things that interested him about John Sheppard. Then he groaned mentally as he realized that he’d started a list of things that he liked about John, and was only making his… thingy… worse when he listed them one after the other. 

“Next time I’m making Teyla cook for you.” John said in a threatening tone, as if that were a fate more dire than death. Ronon gave John an obviously exaggerated look of horror and a shudder.

“That bad?” Mitchell winced.

“She messed up making bouillon cube soup once.” John said flatly. Ronon’s face had returned to his set look- stoic- as far as Spencer could tell.

“Alright then,” Mitchell clapped his hands together, “Well, since John won’t cook for us, I guess we’re going to O’Malley’s. Regular old steak will have to do.”

“Yes. It will.” John said straight-faced. 

“Come on, let’s get out of here.” Mitchell motioned towards the door. Ronon grunted, pushed himself off of the wall he was leaning against and stalked out the door. 

Mitchell raised an eyebrow at John, who turned to address the team, “I’ll see you guys tomorrow, don’t wait up, I’ll probably crash at Mitchell’s tonight. I’ll show up here at 0800, okay?” He gathered up his laptop and the few papers that were his.

The team nodded their agreement, since there was really nothing more John could do tonight anyway. Salazar however looked outraged. Spencer liked him less and less as the case went on.

“You’re leaving?” Salazar demanded. “What about the case Colonel?” The derision he’d put into the last word was probably audible on another planet. Spencer wondered what the guy’s problem with John was.

John looked at him coolly, his entire demeanor turned icy. Straightening up he replied in what Spencer was beginning to think of as his ‘commanding tone’, “Yes. I’m leaving, not that it’s any of your business. And you all will be just as successful going through the files without my presence as you would be with me here, Detective.” John stared at the man until Salazar looked away. John continued in a far more genial tone, “Now, I’ll see you guys tomorrow. Good luck on the paper trail.” He smiled and nodded at the team before heading out the door.

Mitchell gave Salazar the stink eye for a long moment, before shaking his head at the man and mumbling something no one could hear under his breath. He inclined his head at the team and silently followed the other two men out of the room.

Spencer returned his focus to his work, his knee was starting to ache, but he had another hour and a half before he could take his next dose of painkillers, and reading about the victims’ expenses and comparing them to try and find a common denominator was an excellent distraction from the pain.

He looked up upon hearing a snort of disgust, and watched silently as Salazar began angrily stacking up folders and muttering under his breath. The rest of the team was watching in disbelief, Spencer however wasn’t surprised.

“Where the hell are you goin’ man?” Morgan demanded after a moment.

“To go do something useful, like actual police-work. You all are welcome to sit here and look for paper trails, I’m gonna go get some feet put on the ground and shake things up. If you don’t need Sheppard here, you don’t need me.” Salazar ground out.

“What the hell is your problem?” Spencer surprised even himself by demanding. “You were fine with us when we first got here, and you even seemed to like John well enough. Now you’re acting like we personally insulted you by being alive. We’re here to help with the case, nothing more, nothing less."

“My problem? My problem is that my department is wasting money on a bunch of pansy-assed fortune-tellers who are sitting here doing nothing. My problem is that that man you call Colonel, is an insult to the rank, blatantly ignoring the UCMJ and allowing fucking faggots to serve on his base. Hell the bastard probably is a fag, dirtying the uniform of the good, honest, Godly men who served before him. He should be killed just like the filthy little sodomite he is and all of the others were. I’m glad they’re dead, that that son of a bitch killed them, now that I know they’re all fairies. They were disgraces to the uniform, and should have been killed long before now for their sinful ways.” Salazar hissed angrily, his eyes narrowed.

Spencer had to physically bite his tongue to keep from screaming at the man, arguing with fundamentalist bigots served no purpose, and it wasn’t the first time he’d heard hate speech. His teammates weren’t quite so restrained.

“You shut your Goddamn mouth!” Morgan threatened, low and dangerous.

“You’re insane!” Prentiss shouted.

“There’s nothing wrong with being gay.” JJ was flabbergasted.

“I want you off this case!” Rossi boomed.

“I agree,” said a calm voice from the doorway. “Salazar, you’re off the case.”

“Chief Lloyd!” Salazar spun around in shock to stare at the tall black woman. “You can’t… This isn’t… This is my case!” He shouted.

“Not anymore, you’re a bigot Carl, and you know I don’t tolerate bigotry. You’re suspended, pending a review of your case files to ensure you didn’t ignore or falsify any cases dealing with the homosexual people of this city. You’ll also be seeing a department shrink and have an evaluation done concerning whether or not you’re hiding any other prejudiced or intolerant viewpoints.” She told him point blank. “Now get the hell out of my face, and out of my precinct.”

Salazar sputtered and protested, but Chief Lloyd just stared at him serenely until he ran out of steam and stomped off.

With a sigh the formidable woman turned to look at the team. “Sorry about that folks. If I’d known he was an asshole, I’d have ripped him a new one before this, and never have assigned him this case.” She sighed shaking her head, “I told every single person in this department that the only thing I was prejudiced against was prejudice, and I wouldn’t tolerate any sort of bigotry in my precinct, but they still don’t take me seriously. He’s the third one I’m going to have to have transferred out of here since I took charge last year.”

“Sorry to hear that ma’am.” Morgan told her sincerely.

She snorted, “Call me Helen. I’m going to find y’all a new detective by tomorrow, tonight however, I’m sorry to say, you’re on your own.”

“It’s fine Helen. Thank you for taking care of… that.” Rossi’s blatant contempt for Salazar was obvious.

“I grew up in Birmingham in the ‘60s, son, got maself arrested at all of thirteen during D-Day standin’ up for freedom an’ equality, ain’t no way I be a-lettin’ nobody be takin’ that away from nobody.” Helen announced, her previously softened southern accent coming to the fore. 

Spencer laughed, “Sorry,” he apologized when the woman arched an eyebrow at him, “It’s just that you reminded me of a chemistry professor I had at Caltech; he grew up in Fairfield, Alabama in the 50s and 60s. He was a great man, if a little odd.”

Helen smiled, “Glad to hear another Alabama success story.” She looked down at her watch and sighed, “I’ll leave y’all be now, I’ve got a meeting in ten minutes.” A chorus of goodbyes followed her exit. 

“Well that was interesting.” Prentiss commented. Spencer hummed in agreement and the others nodded or made agreeing noises.

“Hopefully the next detective won’t be an intolerant asshole.” Morgan added.

“Agreed,” Spencer stated vehemently. 

Slowly they all settled back into their usual patterns, without any additions to the team, reading their assigned paperwork and quietly comparing and compiling points of data. Morgan ran out to grab them all dinner from the local sub shop that one of the officers had recommended and they all ate in relative silence. Finally they all calmed enough to start conversing.

“Wish we were eating steaks,” Prentiss mumbled under her breath, biting into her sub.

Morgan snorted and nodded, “Pretty boy here just wishes he were with Sheppard. Or is it John now?” He teased, reaching over and flipping a piece of Spencer’s hair.

Spencer batted at him, “No, shut up.” He could tell he was turning bright red.

The rest of the team laughed. “Sure we will Reid,” Prentiss smirked, “As soon as you tell us what’s going on with you and Shep.”

“Nothing’s going on.” Spencer denied.

“Then why are you calling him John now? And why is he calling you Spencer?” JJ enforced her point by waving her sub to emphasize it. 

“Because he told me I could?” Spencer winced when it came out sounding like a question.

“Uh-huh.” Morgan looked doubtful, “Details genius.”

“You know what, no.” Spencer tried not to wince when his voice cracked, “It’s not any of your business. He said to call him John, and I told him to call me Spencer. That’s it. Now find another topic.”

The team gave a collective groan, but moved on and continued eating, except for Rossi who was eyeing him curiously. Spencer decided to take the high road by ignoring him. After they finished their sandwiches and cleaned up the conference room, Spencer went to grab another cup of coffee, he didn’t notice Rossi following him.

“Kid,” Rossi began.

Spencer stifled a groan, putting his mug down hard and spinning around to look at the man. He raised his eyebrow and waited to see what he had to say.

“Look, Spencer, I’m not going to say a bad word about anything. Johnny’s become a great guy, and it’s pretty easy to see that you like him.” Rossi leaned against the wall, and Spencer was just thankful that the coffee nook was isolated.

“He’s a nice guy, and he knows his sci-fi.” Spencer defended.

“Sure kid, we’ll pretend that’s all it is.” As Spencer opened his mouth to protest, Rossi raised his hand. “No, look, Johnny was a sweet kid who became a great man. He beat a lot of really scary odds as a kid, Reid, odds you’d know better than anyone. He’s dedicated his adult life to defending his country and his people; and his men are obviously devoted to him, if the ones we’ve seen are anything to go by. But Spencer, I want you to keep in mind that for all that Johnny’s turned out well, his entire childhood was spent in one hellhole after another; and a soldier’s life isn’t easy.

“You heard what was in his file just as we did, and I’m sure you remember every word that Garcia read to us. A man doesn’t earn those kinds of medals by flying routine missions or working the command tent. He’s probably seen a lot of action overseas. Honestly, from the way he acts sometimes, I think he lost someone he was real close to a few years back, Reid, and it still hurts him. Johnny was a sweet kid with the shittiest luck I’d ever seen, but John’s a battle-hardened soldier with a top-secret job and a dark streak that I know you can see as well as I do.”

Spencer was silent for a moment, “What’s the point of all this Dave? I already knew all of that.” He demanded.

“No point kid, just a reminder to think about whether or not this is something you want to pursue, because the type of abuse Johnny went through and the life he leads now leaves scars on a person’s soul, and you never know exactly what those scars are.”

“First things first, I’m not pursuing anything Rossi, we’re on a case and I take my job seriously. Secondly, I appreciate your concern, but you said nothing I didn’t already know and consider. And while yes, I do find John to be attractive both physically and intellectually, but I am still seriously considering whether to pursue a relationship or not after the case is over, and my hesitation is based more on John’s sexuality and Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell than whatever issues he might have due to his past. Thirdly-” 

A throat cleared behind him, and Spencer whirled around, turning to face the eavesdropper. He blanched when he saw who it was.

“Hi.” John said. Then he reached around the two men to grab the phone sitting on the counter. “I left this earlier when we were talking.”

“John,” Spencer’s voice was so strangled even he couldn’t tell what he was trying to say. He cleared his throat and tried again, “John-”

“Spencer,” John seemed to hesitate, “Look, uh, there’s some, uh, stuff to consider, like you said.” At Spencer’s rather pitiful look John continued, “I’m not mad or anything, okay? I just, uh, it’s kind of a surprise. And I need to think about some stuff, and there’s some stuff you, uh, don’t, you know, know about me. We’ll talk after the, uh, the case is over, okay? Because the case is more important than all that… stuff.” He gave a vague wave.

Spencer made another strangled sound deep in his throat as he nodded rigidly. He didn’t think he’d ever been more mortified.

“Great,” John rubbed the back of his neck. “Right, well, I’m gonna,” he waved in the direction of the front door, offered Spencer and Rossi a tight smile, and bolted.

Spencer whimpered. That was a nightmare. Rossi cleared his throat, “Well, that was interesting.”

Spencer snarled at Rossi and had to talk himself down from throwing himself on the infuriating man to strangle him. Instead he whirled around and stalked to the back exit.

“Reid, where are you going?” Rossi called from behind him. 

Spencer thought his answer of showing Rossi his raised middle finger was entirely appropriate.

***

It was nearly an hour later at 2100 when Spencer had finally calmed down enough to return to the station. He’d enjoyed the break from reading through the files as he’d walked (well, limped on crutches) around the area. Colorado Springs was a beautiful city, and it’d been nice to see it, there wasn’t much time for any tourist activities with his job.

Walking back into the station, he thought that if anyone commented on his leaving, he’d turn right back around and walk back out. They had no reason to stop him; he’d finished both his own share of the work and John’s hours ago, and had finished three quarters of Salazar’s as well. Maybe he’d even walk all the way back to the hotel.

Luckily for his peace of mind nobody said a word as he entered the station and passed through to the conference room. His team all looked up, apparently saw that he didn’t want to talk about it and went back to work. He stifled a sigh of relief that no one had said anything as he sat back down; picked up the file he’d left off at, and began to read it.

They all worked in awkward silence for a while, blatantly ignoring the elephant in the room. Slowly the others relaxed and Spencer allowed himself to do so as well, although he knew he’d snap at any of his teammates if they started in on him at the moment, he was simply too wound up. The time ticked by and soon he found himself picking up Salazar’s last file to read through, and a minute later he put it down again in disappointment- the victims he’d been assigned had no common denominators except those that they’d already discovered. 

Then he picked up his teammates completed files and flipped through them, maybe they’d have something in them. Unfortunately, they too were devoid of answers that would lead to the discovery of the unsub. It was quite frustrating.

He leaned back in his chair, trying to figure out the missing piece- how the victims were being chosen. What led the unsub to select that particular victim, and how did he know that they would meet his needs. He rattled the ideas around in his head, trying to complete the puzzle. 

Before he could start to put everything together Rossi cleared his throat. “Let’s call it a night, guys. It’s almost midnight, and this guy isn’t going to strike tomorrow.”

Spencer blinked glancing down at his watch in surprise, he hadn’t realized so much time had passed, although given the amount of pain he was ignoring he was in, it was fairly obvious he’d missed his last dose of his painkillers, which despite basically being extra-strength NSAIDs, were helping dull the burning and throbbing of the gunshot wound in his leg. Everyone began standing up and gathering their things, and with a sigh and a light wince he hauled himself up too, stuffing files into his bag. 

He was about to sling the bag over his shoulder when it was tugged out of his hand, and Morgan slipped it over his own shoulder. “You missed your last dose didn’t you?” He asked quietly, his voice almost hidden among the sounds of shuffled papers and scraping chairs.

Spencer gave him a sheepish look in response and Morgan just sighed and rolled his eyes fondly at him, “Just this once Reid.”

“Thanks Morgan,” was the entirety of Spencer’s response as the pain and long day combined and a sudden weariness came over him as they started towards the SUV. He had a feeling he was going to collapse as soon as his head hit the pillow, despite the later than usual start that morning.

He drifted in and out on the way to the hotel, only his leg keeping him awake. Morgan was kind enough to assist him back to his room and make sure that he took his pills. While he was still awake enough to not crack his head open he limped into the shower and quickly but thoroughly washed away the day’s grime. Scrubbing his hands through his hair he wondered if he should cut it, it was getting awful long. Eventually he realized he’d been standing there staring blankly at the wall while rinsing his hair of shampoo for over ten minutes and with one last quick rinse hauled himself out of the shower and into his pajamas.

He was so exhausted (and his pain meds were finally kicking in) that he basically flopped onto the bed. He smiled tiredly, at least this hotel had decent mattresses, the last one had had rocks. Squirming a bit he maneuvered the blanket so that it was tucked under his chin, and fell asleep between one thought and the next.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you Evelyna for everything!

May 31, 2009

John woke up that morning to a pounding headache. “Jesus Christ, someone turn down the sun.” He muttered as he rolled over to put his face into his pillow.

A deep chuckle came from nearby, “Never seen you double headed before.”

John groaned in pain.

“Double headed?” A cheery voice asked loudly.

John moaned.

“What you feel like after drinking too much alcohol.”

John whimpered.

“Huh. I like that.”

John debated whether or not crying would make his head hurt worse than it already did.

“What do your people call it?”

John decided to throw caution to the wind and tried to work up the courage to scream at the two men yelling above him for being too damn loud.

“A hangover.”

It would be worth it, John decided, “OUT! GET OUT!” He shouted grabbing something to throw at the nearest body, before grabbing at his head. That was definitely not worth it.

“Oof,” the nearby body said, “Well now Cash that isn’t very nice. Especially after Ronon and I picked you up a nice fry-up from Waffle House, its good and greasy- bacon, fried eggs, toast, sausage and hash browns ‘all the way’, just like you like ‘em.”

John was sure Mitchell would have continued waxing poetic about the disgustingly greasy food that he’d brought back, but John had had enough. Or at least his stomach had. John honestly tried to get to the bathroom, unfortunately his foot got tangled in the sheets and he crash landed on the floor. The jostling had set his stomach off and he ended up heaving while on his hands and knees on the floor.

“Oh dear lord, that’s fucking nasty!” Mitchell exclaimed, dancing away from where John had narrowly missed his feet. Ronon was laughing, nearly in hysterics. “You’re cleaning that up, Sheppard!”

John ignored him as he heaved again. This was why he hated drinking. He couldn’t believe he’d gotten so drunk last night, it just wasn’t like him, he didn’t really drink. He dry heaved a couple of times. Why had he gotten drunk last night? He considered it as he finally managed to stop retching, oh yeah; Mitchell had brought up Casey (Cameron’s cousin and John’s lover) and decided that they ought to drink their sorrows over Casey’s death away, and Ronon’s over whomever he had lost. Ronon had joined in and the two of them had morosely compared losing the loves of their lives.

John stood up and stumbled into the bathroom where he decided he’d be drowning himself in the shower. He’d clean up the vomit when he came out (well he would, but he knew Mitchell was a closet neat freak and would have cleaned it up by the time he got out). He looked at the shower blearily and decided he needed to be at least partially functional before heading to the precinct to work today, and at the moment his thoughts were weirdly circular and discombobulated to the point of uselessness, so he turned the water on, knowing it would wake him up better.

Shivering under the spray as it pounded at his aching head, he allowed his thoughts to drift. At first his mind was blank, focusing more on the throbbing behind his eyes and the slowly calming feeling of his stomach. After a bit his mind finally cleared enough to allow in other thoughts besides “Ow.” When he was able to think at least semi-coherently, he turned up the temperature of the water a bit, and then he groaned aloud as the first thought to cross his mind was a replay of what he’d overheard Spencer say the day before. And then he whimpered softly as the groan made his head hurt worse.

John honestly didn’t know what to do. He didn’t have much experience with this sort of thing, despite McKay’s opinion on the matter; he’d only ever been in one real relationship. He’d met Casey at OTS, they’d hit it off, then they’d been routed on different tracks- John to Flight School and Casey to Medical- only to meet up again two years later when they’d been placed on the same team. They’d gotten together when Casey had kissed him (John had had no idea it was coming) and had been together until Casey had been shot down outside of Kabul on June 4, 2003. Prior to that he’d had a disastrous “relationship” with a very sweet Goth girl in high school, until he’d had a flashback on their six month anniversary after he’d found her naked in his bed as a surprise (luckily she had been very understanding, but they’d still broken up as he’d realized girls weren’t for him) and a four month sort-of fling in college with his chemistry lab partner (who had also initiated things). 

John had no idea what to do. It was the only real thought circling through his mind at the moment. He decided to put the thinking on hold for a minute, he needed some water and to wash up. Opening his mouth to catch some of the spray from the shower, he sighed in relief as the water (metallic tasting though it was) hit his throat. With every swallow his head cleared a little more, and he felt more confident in the fact that he could wash up without giving himself a concussion.

He’d started to scrub up using the nasty smelling soap Mitchell must keep around to torture guests with, when thoughts of Spencer circled back to the front of his mind again. So far the only real idea that John had was to wait and see what Spencer had to say after the case was over and they had spoken. Until then though, John decided to list things mentally to try and figure out if he even liked the other man in… that way.

Okay, so what did he like about Spencer? Spencer was kind, funny, and smart; he liked science fiction and could talk about math and science with John, and didn’t seem to mind that John was really a huge geek. He didn’t assume John was an idiot just because he was a soldier, like McKay and most of the other scientists on Atlantis, or because he was dyslexic. Spencer was humble, and could laugh at himself, and he spun a good story (John had been in hysterics after Spencer had described the time Garcia had answered the phone expecting it to be Morgan and gotten their section chief instead). His dedication to the BAU was something John found admirable, the man was helping his country, performing a service few could, or would, do- trying to protect people from the monsters (the human ones, not the alien ones).

John considered Spencer’s physical appearance briefly before dismissing it. He’d never had a specific physical “type” he found to be more appealing than another. He preferred going by personality and intelligence. 

He tried to think of anything he disliked about Spencer. The only things he could come up with were that he drank his coffee with too much sugar, and that he apparently wasn’t a fan of technology.

John nodded to himself as he stepped out of the shower. So far he hadn’t thought of any reason not to date Spencer. However, he still wasn’t sure if he wanted to. He still missed Casey something awful, and while Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell was supposedly on its way out with the new president, at the moment it was still in place. It had been hard to date Casey and not tell anyone; although Casey had insisted on telling his mother, Martha, and within days it had seemed like the entire Mitchell clan had adopted John as one of their own. He still received hand-knit sweaters and quilts from Momma Martha. He wasn’t sure he wanted to have to constantly be worried about his career again, having to watch everything he said or wrote to the person he was with. He had figured that he’d never have to worry about it again after Casey had died.

That was the other major worry he had. When he had lost Casey he had felt like his whole world had fallen out from under him. It had been only a few months after his grandmother had passed away and when Casey had died as well, John had felt like a large part of himself had died too. He had gained some of those missing pieces back in Atlantis but not all of them. He didn’t want to risk getting so close to someone else, only to lose them again; and while Spencer’s job was certainly safer than his, it was by no means a “safe” job. Plus, his life was risky, he wasn’t sure he wanted to leave someone behind if one day he didn’t make it back.

Not to mention John wasn’t sure he wanted to subject another person to his own fucked upped-ness; he knew he wasn’t what any sane person considered normal, and that he had some serious issues (hell, he had volumes according to Dex). He’d already found one person in his life who’d been able to look past that, the statistical probability that he’d find a second person that was able to was less than 5.63%. He knew he had PTSD- complete with triggers that could be set off with a single word or touch, paranoia to a level that some considered insane, frequent nightmares and the occasional flashback- and he was riddled with scars both physical and mental. He was certainly no catch.

John circled his thoughts back to the topic at hand as he pulled on a some clothes left on the bed; boy was he glad that Mitchell had insisted on him stopping at the hotel to pick up clean clothes; looking down at where he’d vomited he smirked, Mitchell had already cleaned it up. So now that that was taken care of, what was he going to do? He was glad his head was clearer now than it had been earlier, although it still seemed to throb in time to his heartbeat, as he needed to be able to think at the moment. He thought back through everything he’d just spent the last little while thinking through- he liked Spencer, he wasn’t sure if he liked him enough to date, he wasn’t sure he wanted to date anyone, and he wasn’t sure anyone would want to date him. 

So where did that leave him? John considered it as he leaned down and laced up his boots, and decided he’d wait and see how he felt about things at the end of the case, and how Spencer felt about things when they had that promised (and already dreaded) conversation. He’d just make sure that he and Spencer didn’t act any differently around each other than before. He groaned aloud as he realized that he’d just put himself through long minutes of agonizing soul searching to come up with the same solution as he’d had before. 

Standing back up his head spun and pounded a bit and he had to reach out and grab the wall for support. Fuck, he hated hangovers, and he’d only ever had two before today. Once he no longer felt like he was going to go head over heels, he began to slowly make his way to Mitchell’s kitchen, keeping one hand on the wall just in case, he was just glad the hall didn’t have any windows.

Walking into the kitchen he let out a whimper and raised a hand to cover his eyes- Mitchell’s kitchen was bright and sunny with two different windows. The other two men were already in the room, as evidenced by their laughter as John stumbled blindly to the kitchen table, John eloquently responded by flipping them off. He sat down and pillowed his head on his arms, trying to block out the cheery sunlight already streaming in at 0635 in the morning. He lay there and moaned for a few minutes before Mitchell took pity on him and passed over a pair of sunglasses.

“Thank you,” John said pitifully putting his head back down, chin on his forearm.

Ronon grunted, “Didn’t realize you got drunk on apron strings.”

John having heard Ronon use the phrase before merely raising his left hand and made a fist with his thumb sticking out between his middle and ring fingers, it was the Satedan equivalent of “go fuck yourself” although the literal translation was “go suck on your mother’s tit”. Mitchell just made questioning noises as Ronon burst into laughter. 

“What does that mean?” Mitchell finally interjected with a light whine.

Ronon looked like he was struggling to remember an equivalent Earth phrase so John croaked out, “He was calling me a lightweight, so I flipped him off Satedan style.” without raising his head from his arms.

“Ah.” Mitchell snickered, “You are a lightweight Cash.”

John remembered just in time not to roll his eyes, only Mitchell ever called him by his old call sign anymore, he hadn’t been Cash in years. Instead he murmured, “Some of us have only bad memories when it comes to alcohol Mitchell.”

Mitchell looked embarrassed, “Right, sorry.” He muttered.

Ronon made an inquisitive sound. John answered, “I’ll tell you another time Chewie.” Ronon grunted in agreement. 

John heaved himself out of the chair and over to the cabinet that Mitchell kept drinking glasses in and poured himself a glass of water from the pitcher in the refrigerator. He took a couple of sips before opening the cabinet he recalled the man kept the ibuprofen in, pulling out two to swallow down. He wandered back over to the table, glad that he had remembered where everything was (and that Mitchell hadn’t changed it in the nearly three years it had been since he’d last been here). 

He looked over when Mitchell slid a plate next to him, letting out a bark of laughter when he saw that it was actually a plate of food from Waffle House that Mitchell had apparently just finished reheating for him. Still laughing he said, “Thanks Cam.” And dug in, thankful that his stomach had settled and knowing that he’d need to eat before he headed in to help with the case today. He paused, a piece of sausage on his fork as something came to mind, he was supposed to be having lunch with Miller’s family today. Shit.

“Hey, Ronon?” John began.

Ronon grunted. 

“Want to come with me to lunch?” Ronon raised his eyebrow, curious. John explained, “I ran into Miller’s family yesterday morning- his sister, her husband and their two kids. 

Turns out Miller’s been telling his six year old nephew tales of our adventures in Pegasus, making them sound more like some sort of weird half-superhero half-Lord of the Rings sort of stories.”

Mitchell cracked up while Ronon had a perturbed look on his face. John sighed, “Yeah, I know. I had us beamed to General O’Neill so he could give Miller a lecture on discretion, but he didn’t actually break any of his confidentiality agreements, although O’Neill warned him he was on thin ice. Apparently we’re a team of Superheroes- Teyla is ‘Teyla the Warrior Princess’, there’s ‘Big Brain McKay’ and you’re Ronon the Barbarian, and I’m Colonel Sheppard, ‘the man who can fly anything’- and we protect ‘The Magic City’ from evil terrorists, ogres and dragons in-between our adventures and quests through the countryside.” John finished sarcastically.

“Oh dear lord,” Mitchell gasped out, laughing so hard he was nearly crying. Ronon just looked disturbed.

“Yeah,” John sighed, “And the boy overheard a conversation I was having with one of the profilers yesterday, and began asking me questions about my scars. So I showed him that one from the bear trap, you know?” Both men nodded having seen the scar before, “And told him a highly edited story about what had happened to cause it.” Ronon nodded in understanding, “And that’s when Miller walks up and salutes me. The kid knew me as John, so when Miller called me Colonel Sheppard he was surprised, and then he was beyond excited. Apparently, the team are his heroes; he repeats all of the stories to his friends. He even went as me last Halloween according to Miller, and made his sister dress as Teyla, while two of his friends who he shares the stories his uncle tells him with went as Ronon and McKay.”

Mitchell, who had finally stopped laughing a moment ago, cracked up again. “Oh please tell me there’re pictures Sheppard!” Ronon cracked a smile as well, he was familiar with Halloween.

“Yeah,” John sighed, “Miller said that his sister mailed him an entire reel of photos.” He smiled, “I told him I want a couple of copies of ‘team pictures’ because that has to be adorable.” John cocked his head, “Weird,” he admitted, “but adorable.”

Ronon grunted in agreement, but John knew he’d have back up at lunch by the look on Ronon’s face. What the hell, John thought, might as well make a little boy’s day.

***

John ambled into the station at precisely 0800, sunglasses firmly in place under the fluorescent lights and computer under his arm. He paused briefly to grab a mug of coffee and liberally added in milk and sugar, and then headed into the conference room they’d been working out of for the last few days. 

Walking in he saw that once again he was the first of the team to arrive, and he frowned at the strange man sitting at the table. “Who’re you?” He asked, pulling off his sunglasses with the barest of winces at the lights.

“Detective Pete Shanahan, pleased to meet you…” Shanahan extended his hand and trailed off leadingly.

“John Sheppard,” John said, grasping the other man’s hand a bit awkwardly, but recovering quickly enough to avoid looking at the hand like it was some alien gesture. Which, thinking about it, it almost was after sixteen years in the military and five years in another galaxy in which time they’d only found two other planets that shook hands. 

John looked the other man over curiously; he was attractive, with receding sandy brown hair and sharp brown eyes, and an aura of good humor. John considered, the name sounded so familiar, but he just couldn’t place it. He shrugged it off, he’d remember eventually. Sitting down he opened up his laptop in order to continue checking his email from where he’d left off the day before, and pulled out his headphone’s so he could listen to his messages.

“So, Sheppard,” Shanahan’s voice interrupted before he could put on the headphones, “How long have you been in the FBI?”

John looked over at him, “I’m not.”

“Not what?” The man asked dully.

“In the FBI.” John responded wryly. At the other man’s confused stare he went to elaborate but was interrupted by the arrival of the profilers.

“Good morning,” Jareau greeted cheerfully as she entered.

“Hey,” Prentiss looked half asleep still.

Reid blearily waved while Rossi just offered him a smile. 

Morgan grinned, “Mornin’,” he greeted them both. Then he directed the next sentence to Shanahan, “You must be the new detective, I’m Derek Morgan, those are Special Agents Emily Prentiss, JJ Jareau, Dave Rossi and Dr. Spencer Reid. I see you’ve already met our military liaison for the case, Colonel John Sheppard.”

“Pleasure to meet you all, I’m Detective Pete Shanahan. I’m sorry about Salazar, he was an ass. I can assure you that I’m not prejudiced against anybody no matter what. My mother would have made me miserable if I had been, she was a total flower child.”

John watched as the team all offered the detective small smiles, idly wondering what the hell had happened after he’d left yesterday. He shrugged it off; someone would tell him if he needed to know. Instead he asked, “What’s on the agenda for today?”

“We finished the paperwork search,” Rossi began, offering John a smile when he sighed in relief, “and Garcia said she’d call to update us around 0900 our time on what she’s found so far. Garcia’s are technical analyst.” He explained to Shanahan, “We’ve had her doing a search through nearby small towns for similar deaths, as well as cross-referencing the known victims’ online habits.”

“I’ve got a press conference scheduled at noon, Colonel,” Jareau told him, “You are welcome to stay for it if you want.”

“Uh, thanks Jareau, but I’m going out to eat with that kid Kyle’s family, remember?” John told her.

“Oh, yes, of course.” She flushed lightly.

“If anyone wants to come, they’re welcome to do so.” John added, looking at the profilers.

“You buying?” Morgan joked.

“Yup. Just no alcohol.”

“I think I’ll join you John, maybe you’ll share a few more stories while you’re out.” Rossi told him, obviously having been told about breakfast the day before. John just shrugged and nodded. 

No one else spoke up, so he brought the conversation back around to their tasks for the day. “Anything else today?”

“We’re presenting the profile to the police around 1000, or 1030; so we need to finish putting the presentation together.” Morgan supplied. “And we’re probably going to spend the afternoon chasing down whatever leads Garcia found.”

“Knife suppliers.” Prentiss added, looking more awake with every sip of coffee she drank, “We’ll probably have to search local spots where you can buy knives, see if our unsub has been having to buy a large amount of replacement knives, or if he’s been using the same one repeatedly and just sharpening it.”

“That’ll be a long shot,” John warned, “There are four bases and the Academy in the city, and if he’s military then all he has to do is requisition a new knife. Plus most of the city is somehow connected to the military in some way or hunt in the winter, both of which either need or like knives. Not to mention any military man or hunter worth his salt can keep a good knife for years and just sharpen it when it goes dull.” Prentiss sighed and nodded and they all got to work, updating Shanahan and putting together the finishing touches to the profile presentation.

***

“Hello my perky profiling pals!” John hid a smirk as Garcia’s voice chirped merrily from the speaker in the center of the table. He’d never heard anyone actually chirp before; he’d pack her up and bring her with him back to Pegasus with them for her morale boosting abilities, if he didn’t think the BAU would hunt him down like a deer for taking her away. Maybe he could get O’Neill to “borrow” her for her hacking abilities on occasion; Miko would enjoy a new playmate. 

“Since when are any of us perky?” Rossi muttered under his breath. John snorted while Spencer smiled. 

“Hey there baby girl, what’ve you got for us?” Morgan greeted her.

“What don’t I have for you, hot stuff?” Garcia purred. 

“Behave, Penelope.” Morgan scolded teasingly, “You’re on speaker.”

“But I just love doing groups.”

“Garcia.” Rossi interjected trying to get the woman back on task. John made a mental note never to introduce Vala and Garcia to one another.

“Oh fine, you spoil-sport, you.” She heaved an exaggerated sigh, “So I did some checking into mysterious small town deaths from around Colorado, and let me tell you, that that was no piece of cake! Do you know how friendly the police are in small towns when the FBI calls to ask them questions? No? Let me tell you- not very. I’ve been hung up on more in the last day than I have been since I tried to find a date to prom.”

She paused, and there was an awkward silence at her revelation. “Don’t worry Garcia; I never had a date to any of my school dances either.” Spencer assured her.

“Sweetie, thank you, but that doesn’t really help since you graduated high school at twelve.” She responded kindly. John opted not to share the horror story of the only school dance he’d attended, it wouldn’t help anything. 

“Anywho,” Garcia continued perkily, “Being that I am moi, I didn’t let any of those backwater wannabe Andy Griffiths stop me, and I managed to detect.” She paused, “Get it? Detect, like detective?”

“Hilarious Garcia,” Prentiss deadpanned, “Your wit truly knows no bounds.”

“That hurts Emily,” Garcia began, but was cut off by Morgan.

“Focus mama.”

John could practically hear her roll her eyes, “For you, my majestic chocolate god of romance, and only for you.”

“Garcia.” Rossi said warningly.

“Fine, I managed to find another three very likely victims for you, based on, you know, that whole icky slicing thing. There’s Martin Parker, 52, found in September 2006; Mario Sanchez, 80, killed in October of 2005; and Joseph Woods, 63, January 2005. And boys and girls, let me tell you, they were found way out in the boonies, like population under 500 for all three recovery sites and disappearance sites. Heck, the first two were practically Luddite hermits, surviving off of the land. 

“Since the local law enforcement has been so… difficult, however, I have decided to do things the easy way. Well, easy for me, hard for them.” She mused.

“Do we want to know?” Jareau asked her warily.

“Probably not,” Garcia admitted, “But I’ll have the information to you lickety-split using my way. Also, as for looking up the known victims online habits and doing the matchy- matchy? I got nada, I swear half of these guys were less interested in computers than Reid.”

“Hey!” The aforementioned man protested.

“It’s true and you know it boy genius.”

Spencer made this harrumphing noise. Morgan continued speaking to Garcia, “Thanks baby girl, oh, and one more thing.” He continued after Garcia let out a curious hum, “Could you make up a list of all the local places of business that sell hunting knives?”

“You insult me, my sweet, of course I can. Ciao darlings.” She hung up.

“That woman,” Morgan huffed, shaking his head.

“That was…” Shanahan spoke up, “Actually, I’m not sure what that was.”

“That was Penelope Garcia.” Rossi commented wryly, “There really is no explanation for her.”

***

“Thank you for being here, we know you all have busy schedules.” Morgan began the briefing, “As you all know there is a serial killer operating out of Colorado Springs, and at this point in time we know he has been killing since at least January of 2005, probably longer.”

There were several disturbed murmurs at that statement, and John could tell that most of the officers in the room were upset that they’d had a serial killer operating in their area for over four years and hadn’t realized it. Rossi told them, “The reason this man has gone undetected for so long is because he’s smart, he made sure that both his kidnapping and disposal sites were distant from one another. He crossed not only city lines, but jurisdictions. His first victim, that we know of, was actually disposed of just over the border in Wyoming, and we have expanded our search out of state.”

“We’re going to give you a profile, or description, of just who this man is, based on his behavior that will help to narrow down our suspect pool. Profiles also help us to figure out what the unsub, or unknown subject, will do next.” Prentiss informed them. John guessed it was a “standard disclaimer” of sorts that the team gave to all of the precincts they visited based on the practiced way she had said that.

“This unsub is sophisticated, he pre-selects his victims in a way that is yet to be determined, then he most likely stalks them for several days, if not weeks.” Spencer got started on giving the profile. “He abducts all of his victims from highly visible places, like the parking lot or a park, by herding the victim towards where his vehicle is, typically using scare tactics, where he then subdues the victim using a thus far unknown method, one that leaves no toxicological or physical evidence that we’ve found yet. And he does all of this alone.”

Morgan picked up the explanation, “This tells us two things; one, that this unsub is task oriented, he practices his hunt and capture method to the point of obsession, trying to perfect it, and there are trial runs he practiced with before the abduction. And two that although this unsub is highly intelligent and uses sophisticated and complicated methods of abduction, and he lacks the ability to lure his victim- like Ted Bundy, Christopher Wilder or the Butcher of Kingsbury Run- who used charm and good looks or a ruse to entice their victim to go with them. Since this man is sociable, and comfortable around people, he has the ability to charm his victims; but he doesn’t, we speculate the reason he has foregone this route is twofold; the first it that, for some reason he doesn’t appear harmless or approachable by everyday people- he is likely physically imposing, and he has some sort of recent non-debilitating physical deformity that would cause people to shy away from him on the street.”

“How do you know that?” One of the officers asked.

Morgan explained, “Because this man is confident- his method of terrifying his victims and then herding them to the desired location takes skill and a level of confidence that someone who had spent their life with a disability often wouldn’t have; thereby ruling out a congenital disability like a club foot or cleft palate, or something like a stutter. This leads us to believe that the unsub has some sort of recent facial deformity or other non-debilitating deformity; such as severe scarring, or a growth.” 

Prentiss stepped in, “The second reason he chooses not to lure his victims using a ruse is simple- he doesn’t want to. He could have found multiple ways and places to abduct them, especially since he stalks his victims beforehand. He chooses to do so in a way that will terrify his victim, and that is his signature- fear. He terrorizes his victims throughout their entire ordeal- from the moment he begins his hunt, until the moment they die, he feeds off of their fear. Even leaving the bodies in easily discovered places creates fear among whoever discovers them.”

“He’s still charismatic and engaging,” Rossi took a step forward, “and likely has numerous friends; he is most likely married, although it is doubtful that he has children. He will be active in the community and at church, and socializes frequently; he is confident and charming in his everyday life. This man is not the creepy guy down the street- he’s the neighbor you invite over for the game and some beers.” Rossi added, “He is not in a psychotic break- yet, but he is beginning to devolve. You will find that there are two stressors in this unsub’s life- the one that started him killing, and the more recent one that has him doubling his pace.”

John stepped up, changing the focus slightly; “He also has a steady job- likely affiliated with the military in some form. He is methodical and patient, and uses forensic countermeasures- if he is not currently military, then he has been in his past, possibly even special forces- and at one point he was a POW or is close friends with one. His military background is evident in the manner he tortures and kills his victims- he doesn’t let them bleed out, instead he slowly and methodically slices their flesh, line after line after line, and each cut is almost exactly the same length and depth as he develops his MO. He moves in the same pattern every time- lower legs, then the lower arms, then the back, followed by the upper legs and buttocks, the upper arms, the chest, the hands and feet, followed by the pelvis and genitals.” 

John took a deep breath, he’d only figured out why the pattern of wounds had looked so familiar that morning, “There is a rebel group that uses an extremely similar method of torture in order to convince captured soldiers to talk. I am not, at this point allowed to disclose the rebel group, but I have contacted the Head of Military Operations of Homeland Security, General O’Neill, to perform a record search for men who have been victims of that group.” He’d informed the BAU team about that about an hour ago- they’d wanted Garcia to do the search, John wanted to know if they’d like to see her arrested for doing it and then had O’Neill run it (well, Carter most likely, but still).

Morgan leaned back against the wall, “His victim choice tells us a lot about him; despite the fact that he chose victims from all races, the unsub is most likely Caucasian or biracial with dark hair and eyes, due to the predominant victim choice falling into one of those two categories. The fact that the majority of his victims are homosexual tells us one of two things- either this man is closeted and hates himself, or he is straight and hates a specific homosexual man or men.”

Spencer jumped in, “This is further evidenced by his later victim choices- all of them are Caucasian or light skinned biracial men, with dark hair and brown, hazel or green eyes, in their mid-20s to mid-30s. These men represent someone specific that he is killing over and over- either himself or the specific homosexual man he hates. The fact that he developed such a specific victim preference so late in his evolution is unusual; most serial killers who have such a specific preference develop it prior to the kills, or within the first few. This later breaks down as thoughts of killing again consumes their every waking moment, to the point that they devolve and target any person they can get their hands on, regardless of the victims appearance. This unsub however, did the opposite, narrowing his victim pool significantly.”

Prentiss added, “However, the fact that this unsub began with elderly or disabled victims tells us that in the beginning he lacked confidence- as do the remote locations of his abduction and dump sites. Yes the victims were found quickly, but none of them were tied together, there were just a lot of small towns with one strange murder victim. As he successfully killed more men, he became more confident, moving on to stronger and more agile victims. He also began to both abduct and dispose of his victims closer and closer to his home base- Colorado Springs. This provided him with more confidence, as every time a victim was discovered and no one connected them, it gave him positive reinforcement of his own superiority and power.” 

Rossi continued, “This man craves control and order; every aspect of his life will be organized and in control- from his job, to his marriage, to his weekly poker game, to his kills- this man doesn’t just want order and control, he needs it. In fact that will probably be the one complaint anyone will have about him- ‘He was demanding, bossy, a control-freak, and so on.’ This is why he is so precise about the cuts, the brands, and the final stabbing. Don’t be surprised if it turns out he has set times for each action he performs. He is a true control-freak, almost to the point of being obsessive compulsive; this is why his timeline has been so rigid, and his ritual so static, once it developed. The timeline tells us that he has obligations that he can’t miss on a regular basis, so he set a schedule for when he was allowed to release his urge to kill. There will be the occasional deviation in the timeline, where his urges got the better of him- likely due to some sort of emotional upset.” 

Morgan stepped forward, “Understand, the timeline did not start out as this man sitting down one day and saying, ‘Today I’m going to kill someone, and in two months I’ll do it again.’ This killer likely began to kill when he flew into a rage and murdered someone, likely someone he knew. And that was when he realized he liked it. His second kill was probably several months after the first- once he’d realized that he hadn’t gotten caught and that he not only wanted to kill again- he needed to kill again. Slowly the time between kills grew closer and closer together.” 

Morgan paused, and John picked up where he left off, “At some point he thought that someone suspected him, and that’s when he decided to space his kills out enough that he wouldn’t be caught. That’s another thing- you hear about those killers that want to be caught on TV- this man is not one of them. Nor will he contact the police or the news although he will be closely following the investigation. For him, this isn’t about notoriety, it’s about power, control and hatred.” 

John paused to let that sink in. “ He gets the power from the control- it isn’t easy controlling a full grown man, especially not one with military training, but he’s done so now to more than twenty times. All of them men that he hates, and thinks are worthless. And he does hate his victims, he will not stop killing, instead he will escalate as time goes on- whether it’s done through shorter cooling off periods, or by ‘doing doubles,’ meaning two victims at once- we’ve already seen that his time between kills is rapidly decreasing. So now we’re on the clock, to catch him before he devolves to the point of a rampage.”

Spencer continued, “This man is a textbook psychopath- he feels absolutely no guilt and no remorse, he has no empathy for others. In fact, the only emotions he’s probably ever felt are anger and superiority. However, if you were to talk to him, you wouldn’t know it. He is a master at feigning emotions in order to fit in- to the point that he most likely appears to be a charming, likeable man. He kills because when he does, he feels an almost sexual satisfaction from it- and the torture beforehand only heightens that satisfaction- he’s what’s known as a sexual sadist.”

“Prentiss mentioned fear earlier, saying it was his signature,” Rossi began, “This is true, he essentially feeds off of his victims’ fear because it is somehow necessary for them to be terrified in order for him to gain satisfaction. This is evident in how he terrorizes them in order to abduct them, and then spends the next two days slowly slicing them up. We theorize that he most likely blindfolds his victims in order to keep them in suspense. He has a secondary location, outside of both his home and work, where he can bring his victims to torture and kill in the vicinity of Colorado Springs. This location will be isolated, so that he can listen to his victims’ screams and pleas.” Rossi kept his face straight and his eyes forward, but John could tell he wanted to look at him. “Possibly a warehouse or a remote cabin, however it will be owned by him, as he would want to have complete control over the location, which he has meticulously modified as his torture chamber.”

John leaned back against the wall, “Also, whoever this man has as the target of his rage is in serious danger, if they are not already dead. Since the unsub developed a specific preference in victim type as the killings continued, it is likely that he is working his way up to killing the object of his rage. If he is killing men who represent someone else, than when the unsub feels confident enough, he will target, kidnap and torture the object of his rage extensively before killing him, it will likely make the torture he performed on his earlier victims look like he was being sweet and gentle. If he is killing men who represent himself, he will likely commit suicide. However, with this suicide he will take as many people as he can with him. This type of unsub, if targeting themselves, typically choose suicide by cop. Whichever the case may be, this unsub has an endgame that he has been meticulously working out and planning obsessively for years.”

Morgan wrapped it all up, “This unsub will most likely attack in the next week if he continues to follow his pattern of escalation, so be prepared, and take any missing persons reports seriously. After the press conference this afternoon, we will be setting up a tip-line, please use the profile to help narrow down the tips to a manageable level. We need to find this man before he devolves any further, and before any more lives are lost. Thank you for your time.”

They stood back as they watched the officers file out of the briefing room. Chief Lloyd wandered over to the team; she’d introduced herself to John earlier that morning.

“So, what didn’t you say? I could tell y’all left out something.” She raised an eyebrow at them.

Rossi sighed, “We left out several things Helen. We left out that this man most likely already has his sights set on his next victim, and we probably won’t figure out who the unsub is in time to save them. That the tip-line will be useless, because no one would ever think this man could be the one responsible. That, to be honest, we probably won’t catch the unsub until someone else goes missing or we catch a lucky break. But what good would that information have done the officers? They’d only worry more and stress more, and lose sleep over something they can’t control.”

She sighed, “I see.”

John looked over at her. “Good,” he said succinctly, “Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned from command it’s that sometimes too much information can be just as deadly as not enough. People don’t always need to know everything, Chief.”

He ignored her pinched lips, and turned to head back into the conference room when her voice stopped him as he reached the doorway, “How long have you been in command Colonel?”

“Of my base? Over five years.” He turned back to face her, leaning against the doorway.

“How many men?” He wondered why she was asking these questions.

“Does it matter?” He raised an eyebrow.

“I suppose not, Colonel.” She said reluctantly. “I’ll let you get back to work, folks.”

As she turned to leave, he sighed, “I’m directly in charge of 145 military assets, plus the 136 civilians that work on the base, and several local guides we employ.” John paused briefly, considering, “We also have treaties that include helping to defend their settlements and providing refugee camps in times of need with over one hundred local villages.”  
He simplified, “Probably over twenty thousand people all told between all of the villages.”

He noticed everyone was staring at him. He ignored it and entered the conference room, picking up the fax that had arrived while they were giving the profile. John smiled; it was a list of local businesses that sold knives, a long list, finally something to do.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you Evelyna!

Spencer shifted awkwardly, unsure why he was even there, before remembering that Rossi had managed to drag him along to lunch with John too. Something about learning more about him and a deeper look into the man’s history; Spencer had steadfastly refused to go, but when it had come time for them to leave for lunch, Rossi had physically hauled him with them by the back of his shirt. John had simply smirked at the two of them, amused by their antics.

They had swung by a small house in the Broadmoor Bluffs area, and picked up the exceedingly large man, Ronon Dex, that they had met the previous evening. The man had grunted at Rossi and him (Spencer was beginning to think grunting was the man’s first language), and then slid into the backseat beside Spencer, and proceeded to look him over. Spencer had shifted nervously in his seat, trying to resist the bone deep desire to flee like a rabbit being eyed by a cougar. 

“Ronon,” John said levelly from the driver’s seat, not having even turned around or glanced in the rear view mirror at the man.

Dex let out a huff, crossing his arms and slumping in his seat a bit. Spencer was surprised by how young he looked at that moment.

John let out a snort, and Spencer imagined the man rolling his eyes behind the aviators. “Buck up Chewie,” he drawled, “I’m paying for lunch; eat as much as you want.”

Spencer was fascinated by the interaction between the two men. John was obviously the superior of the two in rank and Dex, despite his obvious physical prowess, respected the man tremendously as a leader. However, the interactions between the two spoke of a close friendship, nearly familial in some respects, with John playing the role of elder brother. It was an interesting balance between leader and subordinate; and brotherly affection between the two men that Spencer hadn’t ever really seen.

Dex muttered something under his breath, but sitting beside him the only word Spencer caught was “McKay.” John however, despite being further from Dex than Spencer was, had apparently heard the man fine.

“Yeah, no, McKay would have had to pay for himself Big Guy. He eats more than you do.” Spencer was impressed with his hearing range. Dex let out a deep chuckle in reply.

Before anyone could make another comment they pulled into the drive to the restaurant. “Chili’s,” Spencer read the name of the restaurant.

“Yup,” John confirmed, “Wanted to go somewhere fairly neutral, plus they have chicken fingers and stuff for the kids.”

“Neutral?” Dex inquired, perking up a bit at the term.

“Not that sort of neutral, buddy, sorry. Neutral, like, a location with something for everyone to eat, not neutral like the surrounding areas are at war,” John told him. Dex grunted again in reply.

“They got that moth ball soup, like that place you took us to?” Dex leaned forward eagerly as John pulled into a parking space.

“Uh, no,” John snickered, “And it’s Matzo Ball Soup.” Spencer watched as John seemed to consider what to say next, even as he unbuckled his seatbelt. “Have you had ribs yet? American style ribs.” John hurried to add as they all piled out of the SUV.

“No,” Dex answers as they head towards the entrance of the restaurant. He’s intrigued to see that the man automatically falls into step just behind and to the right of John in a guard position, and can see Rossi silently observing the interactions with interest as well.

“Well this place has decent ribs for a chain restaurant, and I think you’ll like them. It also has burgers, steak, chicken, and some other stuff if you don’t want ribs.” John cocked his head as if considering something, “I need to take you to a real Southern Barbecue; I think you’ll enjoy it.”

Dex shrugged and stepped forward and to the right to open the door roughly, automatically moving behind it and to the side as if to allow John through first to clear the room. John had automatically moved to the opposite side of the door frame before stepping around to the entrance with his hand hovering over his gun, eyes quickly scanning and profiling the room. When he lost most of the tension in his shoulders and Dex also relaxed, Spencer exhaled a breath he hadn’t known he was holding. He also revised his opinion of the region the two men had served in from “war zone” to “hell on earth” if they were automatically conducting room clearing procedures and picking targets in a Chili’s in downtown Colorado Springs.

The hostess hadn’t noticed their arrival, so the four men stood patiently for a minute or so before Dex seemed to get an idea. A wicked looking smirked passed over his lips and he silently moved closer to the young woman, to the point that he loomed over her less than a foot away, carefully standing where his shadow wouldn’t fall on her. John gave the man a tolerant and amused smirk, and Spencer guessed that this was a trick they’d played on people before. Apparently Rossi also picked up on the amused atmosphere, clearing his throat loudly, to attract the girl’s attention. Looking up, startled the woman let out a small shriek and taking a quick step back upon seeing Dex looming over her menacingly, a feral grin on his face. 

“Sheppard, party of nine,” John interrupted smoothly, as Dex took a step backwards, and gave the woman a (faux) confused look as if he had no idea what she had screamed about. 

The woman was obviously puzzled, standing there blankly for a few moments, hand at the base of her throat, not sure what had just happened. She simply stood there, seemingly forgetting her job, trying to get a hold of herself. Spencer felt kind of bad for her; she was only doing her job and had been terrified as entertainment for Dex and John.

He cleared his throat to prompt her back into action, but apparently John took pity on her as well, “You all right?” he inquired gently.

“I… yes,” she stumbled over her words at first. “Sorry about that, Welcome to Chili’s.” She exclaimed cheerily. “What did you say the name of your party was, again?”

“Sheppard, party of nine,” Rossi spoke up for the first time since they’d picked up Dex.

“Of course,” the hostess gathered up a stack of menus, “If you’ll please follow me gentlemen.” She turned and strode off purposely to an area in the back of the restaurant, “The rest of your party hasn’t arrived yet, I’m sorry to say. But your waitress will be with you shortly.” She told them as she showed them to a table, laying out the menus on the edge of the table for them to grab and pass around. “Is there anything else I can get you?”

“We’ll need two kids’ menus,” John said, “And we might need a high chair or booster seat, I’ll let the parents decide.”

“Thanks for letting me know,” the hostess said perkily, “We always prefer to be pre-warned. Have a great day!”

The four men settled in and proceeded to look at each other awkwardly after the hostess left. Spencer kept shifting in his seat, trying to think of some topic of conversation the entire table could follow along with easily (or at least be relatively interested in), but he had no idea what Dex was interested in, and that Rossi would likely attempt to strangle him later if he tried to begin a conversation based upon science fiction shows.

Dex snorted, reaching over to grab a menu, shoving a second one at John. Opening it up, the man started to read through it. Spencer watched him intrigued, as he reached over to grab a menu for himself and pass one to Rossi. The large man was literally reading the menu, line by line; Spencer watched as his finger moved slowly across each line, word by word, mouthing the words as he read them.

“Sheppard,” the big man poked John in the shoulder. 

“What’s up?” John looked over from where he had magically found a pen and was writing something on a napkin. Leaning over slightly, Spencer could see that it involved a lot of large numbers, although he couldn’t tell what it was from this angle. 

“What’s a goo-ack-uh-mole?” Dex sounds out syllable by syllable.

John blinked a couple of times; obviously trying to figure out what word Dex was referring to. “Guacamole,” Rossi informed the other man patiently, his voice even.

“Thanks,” Dex grunted. “What’s a guacamole?”

Spencer stepped in to explain, “Guacamole is an avocado-based sauce that originated in the Aztec society prior to the sixteenth century and is still used in modern Mexican cuisine. It has also become a common part of American cuisine, typically being utilized as a dip, condiment or salad ingredient. It is traditionally made my mashing ripe avocados with a mortar and pestle, and sometimes other ingredients such as tomato, onion, lime, garlic, chili, and other ingredients or spices. The term ‘guacamole’ originates from- from,” he stuttered to a stop when John reached across the table and covered Spencer’s hand with one of his own. Spencer stared at it stupidly for several moments before looking up at John, feeling the heat pool low in his stomach.

John’s cheeks pinked and Spencer could see that the tips of his ears were red and his pupils slightly dilated. He could feel the weight of both Dex’s and Rossi’s stares, but ignored them, instead concentrating on the feeling of the warm hand on top of his. “Thank you,” John told him lightly, his voice betraying none of his emotions, despite his blushing cheeks. 

Settling back in his seat, John told him sincerely, “Really, thanks, I didn’t know half of that, it was interesting. Unfortunately, Ronon has a short attention span, and can’t read with distractions yet.”

Spencer blinked in confusion, even as Dex glared briefly at John before he grunted in agreement, until he looked where Rossi had directed his gaze to and saw the wicked looking hunting knife that had taken up residence next to Dex’s silverware. The thing had to be at least six inches long and three wide.

“Put it away Ronon,” John hissed. Dex rolled his eyes but complied.

“You’re learning to read English?” Rossi asked neutrally, drawing Spencer’s attention away from the knife that Dex was secreting away.

“Yeah,” Dex answered shortly. Next to him John stiffened slightly, barely perceptibly.

“Good for you,” Rossi responded, just as neutrally as he had before.

Dex grunted, peering down at his menu again, unashamedly mouthing the words as he read. John relaxed slightly, picking up his own menu to look over, one finger moving slowly along the page. Spencer shifted a bit, he’d already read through the entire menu and memorized it a few years back. Opening his own menu, he decided to re-read it and see if there were any new items available, while reading very slowly.

Luckily they were interrupted by the clattering arrival of the rest of the guests before there were any more awkward attempts at conversation (or Spencer had to read the menu for a sixth time).

“Hi John,” the boy, Kyle, breathed out reverently.

“Hi Kyle,” John quirked a grin at the kid, “Hey Miller, let me introduce my guests. This is my friend Special Agent Dr. Spencer Reid; with the FBI- he’s so skinny that I decided I needed to feed him a good meal today.” John winked at Kyle who laughed, but kept his eyes fixed on Dex. 

“Hi,” Spencer could feel himself blush at the comment, even as he waved at the others who were taking their seats.

“This is an old friend of mine, Special Agent David Rossi,” John began but was cut off.

“Whoa! Wait the author David Rossi?” Miller asked surprised.

“Yup,” John replied, eyeing Miller.

Miller flushed, “I have all of your books, sir, and they’re very interesting and exciting.”

“Thanks,” Rossi replied, “I did my best to make them entertaining.”

Miller opened his mouth, but John cut him off, “Your day job too boring, Miller?” He asked nonchalantly.

“No sir.” Miller looked like he was trying to stiffen to attention in his seat. John just rolled his eyes.

“And this, Kyle, is my good friend and teammate Ronon Dex,” John introduced the last member of their group.

The boy gasped, “Whoa!” he said just like his uncle, “You really are a giant!”

Spencer snorted, and Rossi grinned with amusement, while Kyle’s parents looked on indulgently and his sister colored away happily on the children’s menu. 

John looked at Kyle solemnly, nodding, “Yes. Yes he is.” This statement was followed by a muffled grunt as Dex elbowed him in the side with a light glare. John glared back for a moment before shrugging, “Anyway, and I’m Colonel John Sheppard, USAF. It’s nice to properly meet you all, since we didn’t have time yesterday for introductions.” John shot a look at Miller, obviously reminding him to introduce his family.

“We’ve heard all about you Colonel,” Miller’s sister smiled at him. John flushed lightly again. Spencer could see the tips of his ears redden, which he found simply adorable. Spencer then slapped himself mentally for thinking the word ‘adorable’ about John.

“Repeatedly actually,” Kyle’s father added with a grin, his teeth flashing white against his dark skin.

“Yes sir.” Miller sat up even straighter in response to John eyeing him again as a reminder for him to get on with the introductions, and was obviously excited to be introducing his family to his CO. “This is my sister, Marianne Custer; her husband Joseph Custer, and their children Kyle and Jillian. I’m Captain Louis Miller, Royal Canadian Air Force.”

“Canadian?” Rossi blinks in surprise. Spencer had been able to tell from the Captain’s accent that he was Canadian, although his brother-in-law sounded like he was from the Southeastern United States.

“I did tell you my base is an international one Rossi,” John smirked at the older man.

Rossi scowled at him, “You did.” He said levelly.

Dex let out a bark of laughter from where he was sitting next to John, “Sheppard, your people have a food called the Kwesa Dila? Really?”

John turned bright red, and sank lower in his seat. Miller started to snicker, and then both he and Dex ended up in hysterics.

“Oh, shut up!” John huffed, glaring at both men, although the effect was ruined by his scarlet cheeks.

“Do you mean quesadilla?” Joseph asked with some confusion.

“Huh?” Miller looked over at him, still laughing, “No. Well, yes, I guess, but no. We’re talking about the Kwesa Dila.”

“You gonna eat some Kwesa Dila, Sheppard?” Dex leered at John, who smacked him on the arm, nose wrinkled in disgust.

“What? What’s going on? Tell me!” Kyle demanded. Behind him his sister nodded with vigor.

“Um,” John bit his lip, his face turning a darker stain of red as looked at the child, obviously having forgotten about his presence, “Captain?”

“Oh, uh, I don’t think that story is- I don’t think you’d like that story Kyle.” Miller tried to come up with some reason to avoid telling the boy the story.

Rossi shot John a pointed look, and the man gave a reluctant nod, indicating that he’d tell them later. They were saved from more of Miller’s excuses to avoid telling Kyle the story by the arrival of the waitress, who took their orders with a smile.

“So we were in this village that McKay kept calling Village of the Damned…” Dex trails off, grinning widely at John’s groan.

“Ronon!” John protests, but seeing the Custer’s, Rossi’s and Spencer’s inquisitive looks, as well as Kyle and Jillian’s puppy dog eyes, John caves, “Alright, fine.” John scowls, muttering a bit under his breath, his cheeks still flushed. Spencer bit his bottom lip in anticipation, this sounded like it would be an amusing tale.

“So there we were; my team, and the good Captain Miller here’s team, in this little village that… had a rather obviously limited gene pool, based on the fact that everyone there looked like the kids from the ‘Village of the Damned’- white hair, creepily light colored eyes. The marines all called the place “Deliverance.”. We were looking to trade, since our base-”

“The Magic City!” Kyle interjected, bouncing with joy. Jillian clapped in excitement, before settling down to listen raptly with her thumb in her mouth. Spencer thought it was sweet how the Captain had created adventure stories to entertain his niece and nephew loosely based on his actual job.

“The Magic City,” John agreed, “is rather cut off, and we don’t get supply runs very frequently, we often trade for fresh food supplies- because I never want to hear the words ‘If we don’t get some fruit with vitamin C, you’ll all be getting scurvy,’ come out of Carson’s mouth or have to go on half-rations to keep the base fed again.” John shook his head, while Miller let out a sad laugh. Spencer frowned, that sounded horrible.

“Wasn’t fun,” Miller agreed morosely. Dex grunted in agreement.

“So we trade, in order to ensure we have the necessary supplies for ourselves, typically we trade for medicines and medical treatment or training, or for technological help- building better irrigation systems, or helping to construct generators or other projects. Sometimes we trade so that villages in need don’t feel insulted by us just giving them things, so we trade for things we don’t need like cloth or furniture, because it’s what they can afford to give up.” John looked reminiscent, and Spencer fought back the urge to pat his hand where it lay on the table, it wouldn’t be wise to do so in front of one of John’s men. 

“So we arrive in Dunwich, straight out of Miskatonic County,” John paused as Spencer cracked up; John smiled at him waiting for him to gather himself. Apparently Spencer was, unsurprisingly, the only one who had read Lovecraft. “So we get to Dunwich, and as usual, in order to become allies and trade with the people there we have to perform a ritual. Now sometimes the rituals su-stink,” John modified with a glance at the kids, “Sometimes they’re weird, sometimes scary, sometimes they’re funny or fun, and sometimes we end up wondering just how bat shit the natives are.”

“Oooh!” Kyle exclaimed.

“Pottymouth!” Jillian put her hands over her eyes. The adults all looked on with amusement.

“Er, sorry.” John apologized to the Custers.

“They’ve heard worse,” Marianne said with a shrug.

“Yeah, mommy’s a got a pottymouth too,” Kyle nods in solemn agreement. His father cracked up, and the rest of the table joined in. Kyle and Jillian exchanged a look and began laughing as well, obviously not wanting to be left out.

After they’d calmed down Miller prompted John to continue the story, “Sir?”

“Oh, fine. So we’re in Dunwich and the headwoman or priestess or whatever; who I swear to God, looked like she was one hundred and five, was only wearing a freaking beaded loincloth, and had dreaded hair down to her… butt with feathers sticking out of it all over, and looked and smelled like she’d been rolling in sh- mud; tells me that… as the leader of our people, I have to be the one to perform the ritual. At this point I was hoping it wouldn’t be anything painful, awkward or involve me rolling in… mud.” John winced at the remembered thought. Dex had a grin on his face, and Miller was trying to hide his.

“Didn’t choose you because you were the leader Sheppard,” Dex gave him a wicked grin, “Chose you ‘cause of your hair.”

“Yes, the priestess declared, ‘it is a perfect replica of the Great Dila’s ruff, you must be very devout. Indeed a Kwesa!” Miller shared, pretending not to see John’s glare, obviously mimicking the woman’s action’s by throwing his hands skyward dramatically (knocking his brother-in-law in the chin in the process).

“What precisely, is a Kwesa?” Spencer asked, leaning forward curiously. Anthropology wasn’t one of his primary fields of study, but it was still interesting to learn about the cultures and rituals of others.

“A Kwesa is a holy man or woman who goes to the edge of extremism in their worship of their chosen deity; typically they dress as and emulate their deity, and lead their religious community in prayer, chant, and holy ceremonies. The village we stumbled upon was devoted to the deity Dila, and others… in the area worshiped other Gods. So their chief or priest, male or female, was the Kwesa Dila.” John explained, wrinkling his nose. Spencer now understood the disgust at the comments about ‘eating’ the Kwesa Dila (particularly after the description of the village’s Kwesa Dila).

“What a Dila?” Jillian stopped sucking on her thumb briefly in order to ask.

“Dila is…” John seemed to hesitate, looking at the Custers, “You guys are Islamic, right?”

“Yes.” Joseph blinked in surprise, “How did you know?”

“I have my men's files memorized,” John explained, “And I know that the Captain is, but I wasn’t sure if you were as well.”

Spencer was surprised, the Custer family obviously weren’t particularly religious based on the lack of head coverings, but they didn’t appear to be of Middle Eastern descent either, and were not identifiable as Muslim. He was also surprised that John knew his men’s files well enough to know one’s religion.

“Lou’s told me that he feels safer on your base than any other.” Marianne told John, who looked surprised, “He says that you don’t tolerate any kind of hazing or cruelty. He told us that you got the man who… attacked that scientist because he was Muslim kicked out of the military in disgrace.”

John shifted awkwardly, “I don’t tolerate prejudice ma’am. My Grandmother was a Holocaust survivor.”

The Custer family was surprised, and Dex looked confused. Miller sucked in a breath, “Really sir?”

“Yeah, she was in Dachau, Auschwitz-Birkenau, Buna and Buchenwald before being liberated from Buchenwald in April of ’45. And Chewie, we’ll stop by the bookstore and get you some history books, I know Teyla read a few that Elizabeth loaned her, but we’ll pick some up for both of you, and some kid’s books for Torren.” John told them.

Dex grunted in agreement.

“What’s a Dila?” Kyle demanded loudly, obviously upset with the break from the story. The answer was put on hiatus momentarily as the waitress brought out their food.

“You know how your family goes to your Mosque and prays to Allah, right?” John asked the kids.

“Yeah,” was Kyle’s exasperated answer; Jillian simply nodded, too busy eating a chicken strip.

“Well the people in this village said prayers to Dila instead of Allah,” John explained carefully. Spencer thought it was a decent answer, although it neatly avoided telling what a Dila was.

“Oh,” Kyle nodded slowly, still slightly confused.

“It’s a giant rooster.” Dex explained shortly, smirking while tearing a strip of meat off of his ribs. “These are good Sheppard.”

“A rainbow feathered rooster,” Miller smirked. His expression turned thoughtful, “Sir, your hair was still rainbow colored from the kids, right?”

John winced, “Yeah, the Lost Boys got a hold of me while I was there, and Cleo convinced me to let her and the other kids play with my hair. I ended up with my hair a rainbow for a month and a half. That does partially explain why they thought I was also a Kwesa.”

“So what happened?” Kyle asked through a mouthful of hamburger.

“So,” John took a sip of his soda, “The Kwesa determined that I would be the one to perform the ritual. And,” John’s face was quickly regaining its earlier flush, “uh, it was, I had to-”

“He had to put on a giant tribal version of a rainbow rooster costume. The bottom half looked like a Zulu warrior outfit made out of tie-dye feathers,” Miller explained gleefully, “and there were these arm-guards that had long multicolored feathers protruding from them like wings. And then the Colonel had to wear this elaborate rainbow feathered headdress thing that stuck up at least three feet, and went down to the floor.”

“Paint,” Dex added.

“Oh and they painted his chest and upper arms with this chalky purple stuff, in the weirdest designs, like Escher and Picasso’s lovechild weird.” Miller had a faraway look in his eye as he recounted the memory, Spencer was snickering in amusement at the image, and most of the others were at least grinning, although the kids looked confused.

“What happened after he was dressed like a rainbow rooster?” Rossi asked, glancing at the bright red John with amusement.

“He had to perform the sacred dance of Dila.” Ronon grinned, maliciously, “Course he didn’t know the sacred dance of Dila.”

“So what’d you do?” Kyle asked wide eyed, staring at John in rapture.

“I… improvised,” John floundered.

“He did the Chicken Dance,” Miller sniggered at the memory, “Dr. McKay apparently had it on his iPod, and we hooked it up to the ju- eep’s speakers. The Colonel edited the lyrics to: _I don’t want to be a chicken, I don’t want to be a duck, I just wanna be with Dila._ The villager’s enjoyed it so much that they insisted the Colonel teach them the dance. We must have done the thing fifty times. Best part was that they insisted the Colonel keep the outfit.”

“Nah,” Dex disagreed, “Best part was we got the whole thing on video and it won ‘Funniest Ritual on a Mission’ that year.” 

The entire table cracked up. Spencer was trying not to snort soda out of his nose as he laughed. The imagery was simply too amusing.

***

Spencer was still smiling as he settled back in at the conference table at the station, he’d enjoyed lunch immensely. After the ‘Kwesa Dila’ story, Kyle had decided to retell a couple of stories his uncle had told him, Spencer particularly enjoyed the one about how John had managed to banish over one hundred evil genies from The Magic City single-handedly. It was an exciting tale, if a bit unbelievable. The one about the ‘Superhero team’ saving an entire village from a raging volcano, and escaping via winged horses pulling chariots that had been put into a magical sleep below the fortress was even less believable, particularly since John had looked so incredulous during their recounting beneath his affable mask of interest, although they had certainly been entertaining and enjoyable.

“Good lunch?” Prentiss arched an eyebrow, and JJ looked at him with interest from where she was perched on the table.

“Yes it was quite enjoyable,” Spencer looked at the two women with suspicion. The faux innocent looks on their faces typically ended up with him stuttering with embarrassment.

“So, tell us all about it,” JJ sidled closer to him, “How was lunch with John,” she teased

“Uh,” Spencer hesitated, feeling his cheeks heat, and he cursed his body’s betrayal, sighing in relief when Rossi walked in, and both women turned to look at him instead of Spencer.

“What?” The man looked at the two women strangely, taking in their curious faces and the start of Spencer’s blush, “Did I interrupt?”

“Yes, thank you,” Spencer said with relief.

“Oh, no, just ignore me and continue on ladies,” Rossi smirked.

Spencer glared at the man as the women basically attacked him, one gripping each of his arms. Rossi simply laughed.

“So what happened?” JJ asked.

“What did you all talk about?” Prentiss probed.

“Did you make hot, sexy man-love on the table?” Garcia asked eagerly through the speaker on the table.

“Uh,” John said from the doorway, looking disturbed, “I think I came in at the wrong moment.”

Spencer put his head in his hands and groaned. John shifted awkwardly, as Rossi and the girls laughed. 

Morgan walked in speaking with Shanahan and asked, “What? What’d I miss?”

More laughter followed the statement, and Spencer buried his head in his arms, John sighed as he sat down.

“So, Ms. Garcia, is there any particular reason you called?” John asked formally, a hint of command in his voice.

Apparently Garcia could hear it as well, “Oh, uh, yes Colonel,” she stumbled over her words. “I called to tell you all that I found another two likely victims.”

“And?” John asked sharply, apparently he was a bit upset with Garcia’s comment from earlier.

“Uh, Timothy Burroughs killed in April of 2005 at the age of 58, retired Marine Master Sergeant and Vietnam veteran, single. The second victim was Lucas Schultz, killed in January of 2006; he was also 58, although he retired from the Army as a Lieutenant Colonel, he served in Vietnam, the Gulf, the Balkans and Afghanistan before retiring. I’m still searching for further victims,” Garcia told them sadly. Spencer was impressed, that was the most succinct he could remember Garcia being in… ever. “Do you want me to send you the list of possibles?”

“No that’s alright, thanks Baby Girl,” Morgan responded for the team. 

“Bye, Super Friends. Break a leg!” Garcia replied before hanging up.

“So what now?” Shanahan asked after a moment of silence.

The team exchanged glances, obviously trying to figure out what direction to take the case in next. John sat there observing them, tapping his fingers on the table while Shanahan looked on with curiosity.

After a silent conversation, Rossi spoke up, “Now we find out how the press conference went. JJ?”

“It went well I think,” JJ said carefully, “Hopefully the unsub was watching.”

“Wait, why did we want him watching?” Shanahan looked confused, “I thought we held the press conference to warn the public, although what they heard and what the other cops heard was a bit… different.”

“Partially, yes,” Morgan agreed, “It was what’s known as a targeted media strategy, speaking directly to the unsub. When JJ described him, almost everything was accurate- his approximate age, physical description, career and lifestyle choices, as well as who he targets was accurate. The only thing we changed was why he targeted them.”

“By implying that the unsub is impotent and a closeted homosexual in the media, we make him mad.” Prentiss continued the explanation, Shanahan listening in earnest. “If we make him mad enough, he’ll slip up and hopefully we’ll be able to catch him. He’s almost confident enough to go after his actual target, and if we get him to act before he’s completely prepared…” She trailed off.

“Then he’ll fuck up,” Shanahan finished for her, nodding in agreement, “Smart.”

Spencer shrugged, “It doesn’t work with all unsubs, and sometimes we have to use other strategies, but we know this man craves power and control, and that his reputation matters to him.”

Spencer liked Shanahan far more than he did Salazar; the man listened, and used his brain. He also wasn’t a bigot, so that was nice as well. Suddenly he remembered that they hadn’t had an update on Hotch yet today.

“Has anyone heard anything about how Hotch is doing?” He looked around the room, smiling in relief when he saw Prentiss, JJ and Morgan all nodding.

“Yeah, Garcia went to see him on her lunch break. Said he’s doing well, and the docs think he’ll make a complete recovery. Although he’s not too happy about Jack and Haley having to ‘go away’ for a bit,” Morgan updated them.

Spencer’s relieved smile turned into an unhappy frown. Rossi simply nodded as if he’d expected that, “We’ll take care of him,” he stated.

“Of course we will,” JJ said briskly, nodding decisively.

Spencer noticed that John didn’t even look curious about what they were talking about, and wondered just how much background information the man had on his team. Shanahan looked curious, but wasn’t asking questions, obviously realizing that this was a team issue.

“What next?” Shanahan asked again, changing the topic.

Rossi frowned and shuffled some papers around before evidently finding the one he was looking for. “Now we go visit the shops in the area that sell hunting and combat knives.”

“All of them?” John arched an eyebrow.

“No, I think we’ll cross off any major corporations like Wal-Mart and pawn shops for the moment, and stick with outdoors and sporting equipment stores, hunting shops and military surplus stores for now. There’re about one hundred of them.” Rossi frowned, “We’ll split into teams of two, and borrow another officer. Let’s go with JJ and Morgan, Emily with Shanahan, Reid and Sheppard, and I’ll go with the other officer.”

“I’ll go grab Ryan; he’s a good guy, good detective too.” Shanahan told them, heading out of the room.

Spencer resisted the urge to smack Rossi for forcing John and him to work with each other. He couldn’t tell if the man wanted them to get together or discourage them from it.

“How are you dividing the search?” John asked the barest hint of the commander he was in his voice. 

“We’ll split it into quadrants,” Rossi decided, “JJ and Morgan will take the Northeast quadrant, Emily and Shanahan the Northwest, Sheppard and Reid the Southwest, and Detective Ryan and I will canvas the Southeast. Garcia can coordinate, call her Morgan.”

“Sounds good,” Morgan slapped the table and was picking up his cell phone as Shanahan returned with Detective Kofi Ryan (“call me Ryan”). Rossi explained again how they were dividing the search up, and the search teams headed out.

***

It was the fourteenth store they’d checked looking for viable suspects in the case, and Spencer was bored out of his mind. John had been doing most of the talking, since the proprietors of the various shops had taken one look at him and dismissed him as “a pipe cleaner with eyes” like that militia member in Montana had. It wasn’t unusual, just frustrating, that people automatically assumed he had no physical prowess whatsoever, which was untrue (although he was no great athlete). The only saving grace had been that by the fourth store John had realized what was happening and apologized repeatedly.

So as they walked into the fourteenth store, John began to move towards the counter, and Spencer drifted off towards the cases in the back with the knives. Studying them intently he attempted to discern if the blade they were looking for was sold here, which there it was- a Vietnam-era Camillus Jet Pilot Survival Knife with a 5 inch blade. The crime scene unit had found a practically microscopic splinter of steel, less than .2 mm, on the x-rays, that had chipped off against one of Orsini’s ribs from a limited run edition of the knife that had been discontinued because the experimental steel composition hadn’t turned out the way they’d hope

The information would make tracking down the knife much easier, or much harder depending on whether it was an heirloom or not. Still by visiting the shops they would be able to find out just how well that particular knife sold, and the likelihood that it had been inherited instead of purchased (which both John and Rossi assumed it was, but it was still better to check sales records to confirm). Catching John’s eye, Spencer nodded, confirming that this store carried that particular knife. John’s answering grin sent a warm shiver down Spencer’s spine. He watched the other man charm the store owner quickly and easily, and wasn’t sure how he managed it since the owner was a former marine (if the tattoo was anything to go by) and looked like he’s as big as a bear. Wandering a little closer he overheard a friendly conversation on which assault rifle “gave the biggest bang for your buck” and snorted in amusement, shaking his head, sometimes the alpha male dominated military society bewildered him and sometimes it amused him. 

“Something caught your eye?” an amused voice said from his right hand side, causing Spencer to jump and turn to face the man standing there.

“Uh,” he said intelligently, wincing internally. The other man was a couple of inches shorter than him, with a long face, brown hair and sharp blue eyes, he was thin and would likely be described as lanky by most people, but his upper arms showed definition and he stood in a ‘ready’ position.

The other man looked past him at John, tilting his head, “He’s certainly eye-catching.”

“I, uh, I have no idea what you mean,” Spencer denied feeling his cheeks burn red. He sighed when he realized that of everyone he knew only Henry would believe him.

“Uh huh,” The man arched an eyebrow in disbelief. “David Parrish,” the man introduces himself, “and you are?”

“Spencer Reid,” Spencer’s still blushing, but at least the other man was being kind. He offered Parrish his hand.

“Nice to meet you Reid,” Parrish told him as they shook hands. Standing across from each other, Spencer made sure he could still see the doorway (and John) even as he conversed with Parrish. “It’s just… I think… you should,” Parrish huffed, obviously searching for the words. “I don’t think the Colonel is gay.” He finally managed to say. “Rumors have him with a different girl on every pl- port,” Parrish finished, “Hell, McKay calls him ‘Kirk’ and he’s his teammate.”

“Wait, you know John?” Spencer blinked in surprise. The man, Parrish had to know John, if he was referring to him as ‘the Colonel’ since John was currently wearing black jeans and a black UNICEF t-shirt. He also ignored the last statement, since he highly doubted John was the sort of man to string along multiple women, he didn’t fit that profile at all. 

“Yes…” Parrish drawled looking surprised, “You call him John?” 

“He asked me too,” Spencer defended himself, not entirely sure why he was trying to justify himself to a stranger, “How do you know him?”

“He’s my CO,” Parrish still sounded surprised, “No one calls him John.”

“You’re military?” Spencer was skeptical, despite the man appearing to have some form of training; he did not have military training. He ignored the second statement, although it made him feel all ‘warm and fuzzy’ inside.

“God no,” Parrish looked horrified at the thought, “I’m a botanist.”

“A botanist?” Spencer was confused, why would an ‘international front line garrison in enemy territory in a classified location’ need a botanist. Before he could ask however, he saw out of the corner of his eye that John was moving over towards them.

“Dr. Parrish,” John greeted, smacking Parrish lightly on the shoulder. “I see you’ve met Spencer.” Spencer felt all tingly when John rested a hand on his shoulder.

“Uh yeah, I mean, yes sir.” Parrish looked floored.

John blinked at him in confusion before shrugging it off, “How’ve you been Doc? How’s work?”

“Good sir, we recently found what looks to be a modern subspecies of Pinus driftwoodensis!” Parish gushed.

“Sounds cool Doc, congrats!” John grinned at him. Spencer smiled as well; Parrish was obviously filled with joy over the new discovery.

“Hey, I wish we could stay and talk longer, but we need to be heading out, we have a few more stops to make before dinner.” John told Parrish, “You picking up a new knife?”

“Yes sir, Evan’s been on me about practicing knife combat, and got Captain Menard to agree to help me out, and Castleman’s has the best. Plus he’s one of us, sir.” Parrish said forlornly, brightening a bit at the last statement.

John laughed, “I know Doc, Castleman’s a good man. Good luck with knife training,” John grinned and seemed to unconsciously guide Spencer out of the store by his shoulder, waving goodbye to both Dr. Parrish and the man working at the counter.

Behind him, he heard Parrish mutter, “Holy shit, maybe the Colonel is gay,” under his breath. Based on the way John’s hand gripped him a bit tighter he’d heard as well, but he didn’t let go of Spencer’s shoulder.

After they were back in their car, Spencer turned to John to apologize for leading one of his subordinate’s to think that the Colonel was gay. And John turned to him at the same moment.

“I’m so sorry for-” Spencer began.

“Look, let me explain-” John said at the same time.

After doing the dance of “You go first, no you, no really you go first, no I insist,” for several minutes they finally seemed to decide through some form of unspoken communication that John should go first.

“I’m sorry I let Parrish get the wrong impression about you and me,” John babbled, “I’m just… and I heard… it’s hard… and there’s this… and McKay has everyone… and I’m not a manwhore.” He exclaimed vehemently, shuddering a little at the last word.

Spencer thought he got about half of that (admittedly mostly the first sentence, which was actually a sentence), but the important part was to reassure the worried looking Colonel, “I know you’re not a, um, a manwhore John.” Spencer said evenly, “I’ve never thought that, you don’t have it in you to do something like that.” The relieved look on John’s face reassured Spencer that he’d made the right call. 

“Uh, thanks,” John rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly.

“No problem,” Spencer reassured, “And I’m sorry for letting Parrish assume that we were a couple. I realize how dangerous that can be for your career.”

John rolled his eyes, “I’m the one who led him to believe it by acting like an ‘over-possessive Neanderthal.’” Spencer could practically hear the finger quotes, “Besides, Parrish won’t say anything.”

Spencer just looked over at John and arched an eyebrow skeptically; John rolled his eyes again, “He’s dating one of my marines, although I don’t technically know that. But he knows I know so even if he was inclined to say anything its M.A.D.” Spencer blinked once at the acronym before putting it together as ‘Mutually Assured Destruction'.

“So you don’t mind him assuming we’re a couple?” Spencer checked.

“Not if it helps to stop those fucking ‘Kirk’ rumors McKay started.”

“Or him thinking that you’re with a man and possibly telling others?” Spencer pushed. When John opened his mouth to protest again that Parrish wouldn’t turn him in Spencer clarified, “Even if he doesn’t report it, but his friends or boyfriend knowing?” 

“No, I mean, they’re not allowed to ask, and I’m not allowed to tell or anything, but my closest friends have figured it out.” John shrugged, and Spencer had to fight not to gape, because John had basically just outed himself. “Besides, I figure you won’t say anything since you’re a pretty open minded guy, and you know, gay.” John pointed out.

“Bi actually,” Spencer corrected absentmindedly. He debated asking more questions, and eventually decided that it was likely a rare thing for John to be in such a talkative mood, and it wouldn’t hurt to ask, “You?”

Spencer frowned a bit, he’d meant to ask an actual question, but John seemed to get what he meant, “I’m not allowed to _tell_ anything,” John cautioned, his face went carefully blank as he continued, “But let’s just say that even if it wasn’t biological, which I thoroughly believe sexuality is, how interested in women would you be after having my Aunt Edith?”

Spencer winced, “I see your point.” They sat in a comfortable silence for several minutes, each lost in their own thoughts.

John offered him a weak grin as he started the car, “Come on, let’s finish up our list we’ve only got thirteen more shops, and then dinner.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Spencer agreed, offering a small smile in return.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my fantastic beta Evelyna, you are amazing! This chapter has been edited slightly since it's original post.

June 2, 2009

John sighed, shifting in his seat bored beyond belief. This was the second day in a row of what he’d decided to term as ‘practically paperwork’, yesterday had been spent chasing down the records (whatever records were left) on those who had purchased the knife that the unsub used in the last few years, today he was looking through cold case files. The only real thing they’d discovered was that the unsub had most likely inherited the knife (which both John and Rossi had said at the start) and that that particular model, especially with the experimental steel composition rarely sold except to collectors due to a few innate flaws in the blade. 

After giving that up as a lost cause (which John had informed them it was days ago) the team had moved on to re-interviewing the friends and family of the victims. They’d compiled lists all day yesterday and called up people to talk to. While several people had moved out of Colorado, many still resided somewhere within the state. The only other thing that had happened the day before was Garcia made another reference to being an “all-seeing Queen who surpasses all others” and John had called into to the SGC to report a possible (but unlikely) Goa’uld. 

Today they were interviewing those who were able to come in, and John had been relegated to the background by Rossi and the other profilers. Both Prentiss and Spencer had been perplexed by the situation, but John suspected that Rossi still looked at him and saw a broken child, while Morgan and Jareau (although Jareau had frowned and made to say something when Rossi had handed out the assignments, but the rest of the team had started off before she could say anything) were suspicious of him and his secrets. Prentiss and Spencer were the most familiar with him, and thus the most accepting.

Either way it was annoying. John was currently debating between walking out the front door and visiting with some of his local friends (before he had remembered that Ronon and SG-1 were off-world), shoving his way into the interrogations, or kicking his feet up and messing around on his computer since he would still be able to access the Atlantis Chess and Chat on the City’s intranet.

With a sigh John rolled his eyes and kicked up his feet, placing his laptop in his lap and opening the Atlantis Chess and Chat program with a grin. He loved Atlantis, and the fact that the City was able to allow anyone (with access) anywhere on a planet to access the City’s intranet only made it better. Scrolling down the list of available opponents, patently ignoring Rodney’s offer for a game (and his second, and his third) since for all the man was supposedly a genius he sucked at chess (although in typical McKay fashion he somehow assumed he was a master of the game). 

Grinning John clicked on Miriam Margolis’ name, his smile broadening when she accepted. He and the burly British geologist had been playing against one another for the last four years to attempt to become the reigning chess champion of Atlantis (thus far their score was 62 games to Miriam, 62 games to him, and 93 games tied). He smirked as he recognized her beginning as the Queen’s Gambit, muttering under his breath that it wouldn’t work this time either.

An hour later they were about halfway through the game, trash-talking (well, typing) each other with glee in between moves, when a sudden beeping interrupted his game. With a groan John absentmindedly reached up to tap his headset in order to listen to whoever was calling for him, even as he told Miriam that they’d finish their game later. (She proceeded to inform him that he was a, “Barmy pillock who had better run scared as you play a shite game. Play again soon, yeah mate?”) He was startled out of his absentmindedness as his fingers only hit skin, and remembered that his headset was back on Atlantis.

Closing the lid of his computer he groped at his pants leg to pull out his cell phone, staring blankly at it as another beep sounded but the phone didn’t light up. Finally cognizant enough to pay closer attention- John was a thorough believer that if he had the time to be lazy and distracted he’d seize that time with both hands and hold on tight, because far too much of his life was taken up by emergencies and other un-fun things- he realized that the speaker-phone on the table was what had been beeping, and he could feel his cheeks heat a bit at his own foolishness.

Rolling his eyes a bit he reached out and hit the speaker’s on button, curtly greeting whomever was calling, “Sheppard.”

“Hello gorgeous,” Garcia’s voice was a low purr of desire and John wrinkled his nose at the image that produced.

“Miss Garcia, how are you doing today?” John ensured his voice was as blandly polite as possible when he replied, it was his ‘speaking to overly-sensitive natives’ voice. He still hadn’t heard back from the SGC regarding whether or not Garcia was a Goa’uld, so he preferred to proceed cautiously. Which meant politely- very, very politely.

“Fine and dandy,” she continued on flirtatiously, “How’ve you been good lookin’?”

“Quite well, thank you. Might I enquire as to the nature of your call?” John smirked, since he knew Garcia couldn’t see him. He knew Garcia’s (or the Goa’uld’s) type- the easiest way to fluster them was to ignore their flirting and act like you had a stick up your ass, plus if Garcia was a Goa’uld he was simply being respectful.

“I- what?” Garcia sputtered and John gave himself a mental pat on the back, “Nature of my call? What the frilly hockey-sticks does that mean?”

“A simple query over whether there have been any new findings, Madame.” John’s smirk was rapidly turning into a grin, this was just too easy, and he felt safe playing the game since he sincerely doubted she was a Goa’uld, and even if she was the SGC was checking her out later today.

She began to babble at him, and John rolled his eyes. This was why he preferred soldiers to civilians- or Atlantis civilians to any other civilians at least- they knew how to get to the damned point (except for McKay who seemed to have a self-imposed mandate to brag for at least five minutes for every accomplished task, no matter how small). After about three minutes of a mix of technobabble and complaints about him being a “stick-in-the-mud” he had enough.

“Miss Garcia, please convey your purpose for contacting those of us located in Colorado at present.” He stiffened slightly as he heard someone coming up behind him, “If you do not relate your purposes for communication I will be forced to terminate the call, and request that you phone again after you are able to transmit the motivations for contact in a rational manner.” John stated blandly in a monotone. Hearing a muffled snort behind him he swiveled his chair to look at a very amused Morgan, who waved, indicating he’d take over the conversation. John flashed him a wicked smirk and waggled his eyebrows; Morgan grinned back and winked at him.

“Hey there Baby Girl,” Morgan crooned, coming over to lean against the table. John settled in to listen to the two friends flirt with each other as Morgan.

“Is that my gorgeous hunk of milk chocolate that I hear?”

“You know it mama.” John smiled at the conversation as Morgan smoothly calmed Garcia back down and wormed the needed information out of her. It was so very different from any conversation he’d ever had with his team (or, simply, ever) but so very clearly reflecting that undertone that could only be described as team. 

After several minutes of simply listening to the amusing, if lewd and ludicrous, banter between Garcia and Morgan (he’d choked on a sip of coffee when he heard the lines: “Come on my chocolate honey bun,” “I’ll butter your buns, hun,”) he’d decided to leave them to it, and checking his watch realized that it was 11.30 and he might as well go and fetch everyone some lunch- it’d be more useful than sitting around doing nothing.

Grabbing his coat from the back of the chair, John slid into it as he jerked his head towards the door when Morgan looked up at him with a raised brow. Glancing down at the speaker caused Morgan to smirk lightly at him and press a couple of buttons, “Hold on a moment, baby girl, I need to speak to someone real fast before I get back to you.”

At Morgan’s nod to continue John said plainly, “I’m gonna go grab us all lunch, since I’ve been ignored and stuck in the conference room all day. Warn Sergeant Major Rossi that he’s going to be torn a new one for wasting his resources.”

Morgan pursed his lips and had the grace to look away, “Sure thing man,” he said quietly. John gave him a sharp nod, and turned to walk out of the room only to pause by the door. “And I’m sorry we’ve been ignoring you man.”

John turned back around to face him and told him blandly, “There is a reason Agent Jareau wanted a military liaison on this case, Morgan, and there’s a very good reason that the Head of Military Operations of Homeland Security chose me to be that liaison. I’m not upset at being ignored, I’m upset at the fact that you, all of you, seem to think I’m incompetent and useless on this investigation and are ignoring an asset that could help you potentially solve the case. 

“Instead you have me flipping through useless cold case files- despite the fact that you all know I’m severely dyslexic- and fetching you food like some rookie. If you have any doubts on my competency, all you needed to do was ask Prentiss, whom I trained with as a profiler, or speak to my CO about my abilities in the field. Or you could simply ask me. Instead you all allowed your resentment of an ‘outsider’ and/or reports of my less than ideal childhood to color your perception of me. Now, I’m going to go grab us some subs, since there’s a shop in the same plaza as the grocery store and I want to grab some things for later.”

Morgan was looking ashamed as John grabbed the SUVs keys and walked out of the building, considering his actions since the soldier had joined them. John merely shook his head and left the man to his introspection.

Heading out the door he unlocked the SUV and slid into the driver’s seat, grimacing as he reached to adjust it, it was obvious that one of the women had driven it last; his knees were practically touching his chest. He shot off a short text to Spencer, asking him to get everyone’s order for him. A few short minutes later he pulled into the shopping center.

John headed to the grocery store first, wandering through the aisles as he tried to find the items he was looking for. He was in the produce section when the hairs on the back of his neck first prickled. Glancing around surreptitiously he didn’t spot anything out of order, but he trusted his instincts- they’d yet to serve him wrong. John quickly grabbed a couple of oranges and headed for the check-out line. 

As he idly made small-talk with the pimple-faced teenager checking him out, he felt the hair on the backs of his arms stand up too, and that disconcerting feeling, deep in his gut that he got when he was in a sniper’s cross-hairs. Nervous, John asked the boy for the price abruptly, wanting to get out of the store- away from the civilians. He could tell the boy was disgruntled as he quoted the price of the trip at him.

Frowning, John paid quickly, ignoring his change. As he walked out of the store, he heard the boy shout after him, “Hey mister!”

“Keep it!” John shouted back, and hurried out the doors. He was tempted to head for the sub shop- there was cover in there, and he could probably duck out the back. But when he glanced in his face fell.

A little girl was celebrating her birthday in there. There were at least ten kids running around the place, squealing happily, in their princess dresses. 

‘Fuck,’ John thought. He was many things- not many of them good, in his opinion- but he wasn’t risking a bunch of kids. He would have to risk it and head for the SUV- get back to the station as quickly as possible.

Heading to the vehicle he walked rapidly, but calmly, making it seem as if he were merely in a bit of a hurry. He glanced about, feigning disinterest, but couldn’t see anything in his range of sight, and he didn’t want to turn around. He didn’t want to make a scene. As he arrived at the SUV (luckily he hadn’t parked far from the store) he smoothly unlocked the door, pulled it open, and tossed his bags into the passenger seat. Rapidly jumping into the seat after his bags he went to close the door as he inserted the keys into the ignition, only to find he couldn’t.

John looked over at the door, and his eyes went wide. His hands came up to shield his face, but it did no good. The shot fired. Pain wracked his body, and he distantly felt himself slump partially out of the SUV- careless hands dragged him the rest of the way. His last thought before unconsciousness overtook him was that he should have caused a scene after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long delay, a combination of real life and writer's block can really put a damper on productivity. I have not abandoned this story- and I will not- but updates may be very sporadic. Sorry everyone.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Betaed by the fantastic Evelyna! Thank you so much! This chapter has been slightly edited from its original posting.

Spencer tapped his pen on the table, frowning. “This makes no sense,” he complained to JJ. “These men were obviously being targeted, but whenever we try to talk with their family and friends, we hit a wall. They just look at us like we’re idiots after half of our questions.”

JJ sighed, “That’s one of the reasons I wanted a military liaison on the case.” She explained, “The lives the victims and their families lived are too different from anything we’ve had experience with to really relate too, or know what questions to ask and how to phrase them. None of us were military, except Rossi- and his experience was as a drafted man in Vietnam. And only Emily has any experience at really living a completely hidden life. Sheppard was supposed to be an information source for us. He’s military, associated with this project, has spent his career in Spec. Ops. And he knows how to profile.”

“Except Rossi is treating him like a victim, not a resource,” Spencer rolled his eyes.

“Exactly!” JJ exclaimed. Spencer’s stomach growled. JJ laughed, “Getting hungry?”

“Yes.” He frowned lightly, “I’d have thought John would have returned by now. What time is it?”

JJ looked at him blankly, “John? And you’re the one with the watch.”

“Right,” Spencer looked down and his frown deepened immediately. “It’s 4 o’clock.”

“And?”

“John texted me to get everyone’s orders for the sub place at 12:00.” They exchanged worried looks, “Check and see if anyone else has heard from him.”

JJ smoothed out her features as she popped her head into the interview room where Rossi and Morgan were interviewing the extremely uncooperative partner of Tyler Fitzgerald. Spencer watched both men shake their heads negatively to the question she’d asked them, and went to find Prentiss himself.

“Emily,” he greeted her when he found her sipping coffee in the conference room.

“Reid,” she returned. Looking up at him she sighed, “Why do I have the feeling that whatever you’re going to say is not going to help my headache?”

“Umm…”

“Never mind,” Prentiss sighed, “What’s up?”

“Have you heard from John recently?” Spencer asked anxiously.

Prentiss frowned, “No,” she confirmed slowly, “not recently. Any particular reason you’re looking for him?”

“He left at noon to pick up lunch, but he isn’t back yet.”

“He hasn’t called?”

“No,” Spencer frowned.

“Not good,” Prentiss’ expression reflected deep worry, “He’s a career soldier, he’d update us if something came up that would hold him up.”

Spencer remained silent for several long moments before pulling out his phone and dialing John’s cell number.

Ringing… ringing… ringing… ringing… click.

“How the hell do I-” John’s voice.

“Sheppard you moron-” A stranger’s voice.

“Shut up McKay; just tell me what button I-”

“You’ve already pressed it you-”

“Hey this is Sheppard. Uh… leave a message.”

“That’s all you’re-”

Beep.

“Hey, John, it’s Spencer. Um, we’re kind of worried about you, we haven’t heard from you in a bit, and, um, you should have been back a while ago according to the distance between your targeted location and the station, um, factoring in time to shop and stuff. Um, call me back, okay?” 

Spencer frowned as he hung up his phone. He’d call back in a few minutes. But as of this minute he was worried.

“No answer.” Prentiss stated.

“No,” Spencer agreed. Before he could continue JJ popped her head into the room.

“Hey, I’ve asked around, and no one’s heard from Sheppard since he left. Shanahan’s sending out an officer to check the stores and parking lot where he’d said he’d be, and Garcia is tracing his phone. Something’s…” JJ trailed off.

“Something is wrong.” Spencer finished. Prentiss nodded her agreement. “Do Morgan and Rossi know?”

“Yes,” JJ nodded, “I’ve told them both. Rossi frowned and went to get a coffee and Morgan called Garcia to locate him. She should call back any minute.”

Spencer fiddled with his phone, he felt more nervous than he had the night before his first dissertation, “I’m going to call him again.”

He dialed, the phone rang, click, “How the-”, he hung up. “Damn it!” Spencer swore under his breath.

JJ opened her mouth to say something, but was interrupted by Morgan’s entrance into the conference room with Rossi and Shanahan trailing behind. “Hold on a moment mama,” Morgan said, “Let me put you on speaker.”

“One delectable morsel of a soldier’s phone has been located.” Garcia’s voice was as perky as usual, “Looks like it’s at a shopping mall just off the CanAm Highway. I’ve sent the location to your phones. Let me know what happens. Later my loves.”

“Hold on a moment, Baby Girl,” Morgan said, “Stay on the line for me.”

Spencer frowned, worried, and meeting Prentiss’ eyes saw his worry reflected back. His phone beeped with the address, and his frown deepened. 

Shanahan glanced over his shoulder, “That’s the nearest grocery store.”

“There is no way Shep would take four hours to grab some groceries and subs,” Prentiss stated.

“Nor would he abandon this case, even if he felt we weren’t allowing him to help.” Morgan frowned, remembering the patient way John had stuck around for the last couple of days even as he’d been ignored. 

Shanahan’s phone rang then. “Shanahan. Shit, secure the area, set up a perimeter, canvas for witnesses, and get access to as many cameras’ footage as possible. And get the CSI team on the scene. Send out a BOLO for Sheppard, too.” Shanahan hung up the phone, and Spencer felt like his stomach was in his throat.

Shanahan turned to look at them, brow furrowed, “The SUV you all brought was found in the parking lot outside the nearest grocery store. The front door, driver’s side was cracked open, and the keys were in the ignition. There were also groceries in the front passenger seat. Donahue searched both the grocers and the sub place, and he’s not in either.” He was silent for a moment, “Officer Morales was on the scene for Airman Massimo’s abduction site, as one of the guards, he says that this looks similar.”

Spencer scrubbed at his face, and tried to think objectively and analytically. It had only been during the last eight abductions that the unsub had left the victims’ vehicles at the abduction site, as his confidence grew. But he had taken the keys with him, and ensured the vehicle was secured and did not draw attention. Also, today was a Tuesday. The unsub, as far as they were aware, had always abducted his victims on Friday, held them over the weekend, and killed and dumped them on Sunday evening or night. “He’s way off script,” Spencer heard himself say disconnectedly.

Morgan looked at him in concern, even as he agreed, “Way off script.” He hesitated a moment, “Hey Mama, before we…” He shook his head in denial, “Never mind. Let’s go check out the scene.”

Rossi nodded voice somber, “Right. JJ, start working on a press release, when the media gets a hold of a decorated military officer vanishing while helping on an FBI case, it’s going to be a bloodbath. Garcia, are you there?”

“Yuppers,” even Garcia’s voice was a bit melancholy.

“Get in touch with Johnny’s CO, General O’Neill I think it was, and update him on the situation, ask for any help he might be able to provide. Also I’m going to have the CSIs here send you the video they collect. Go through it with a fine toothed comb.”

“Aye-aye, mon Capitan.”

“Morgan and Prentiss head out to the scene, see what you can find. Make sure you get access to his phone; we’re going to need the numbers. Reid, I want you to help me get in touch with the various people who have been swinging by to visit Johnny over the last few days- Lou Miller, Ronon Dex, that Carter woman, and that guy Mitchell, plus anyone else you can think of. We need to know Johnny as he is now, through his friends and colleagues eyes.”

They all nodded and set off immediately to their assigned tasks, Rossi went to call the hotel- hopefully Miller and his family were either there or would be back soon after he left the message. Shanahan lingered by the door, frowning.

“Do you… do really you think this is the unsub?” he asked.

Spencer looked up, “Unfortunately, yes. I hope not, but…”

“But what?” Shanahan sat down at the conference table, and Spencer sat on the table facing him.

“But John fits the victim’s profile almost perfectly- he’s military, and connected to whatever program the unsub is targeting. He also matches the physical description of whom the unsub is targeting: mid-20s to mid-30s, dark hair, and hazel-green eyes,” Spencer carefully skirted the issue of the victims’ sexuality. 

He frowned in dismay, “The abduction description is also extremely similar to the prior victims’ abductions. The only differences are the amount of disorganization present in this scene, the timing, and the apparent lack of planning. Which tells us a few things: one, that he is rapidly losing control of himself and his desires; two, that because of this loss of control it is highly likely he’s made some mistakes and we’ll finally be able to catch him; three, that he may break from his highly regimented routine, which is both good and bad it its own ways; and four, that of every possible victim he could have chosen, he picked Colonel John Sheppard. That was a very bad choice.”

“What do you mean?” Shanahan looked confused.

“John’s very well connected in the military, and he knows a lot of secrets- people are going to be very upset at his abduction.” Spencer explained, “His men adore him, we’ve met a few, and they would probably literally walk into hell for John if asked, so they’ll be gunning for the unsub’s head. And of all people, John has the highest possible chance of making it out of this situation alive that I can think of.”

“Huh?”

Spencer felt a bubble of amusement pop up alongside the worry, dismay and fear that threatened to overwhelm him, “John teaches high-level, specialty SERE classes for high-risk special forces military units. He says it’s a vacation compared to his regular job. He joked about this SEAL unit he had come through last month that thought they were super tough, and how they really weren’t. He knows how to survive capture and torture, and how to escape if given the chance.”

Shanahan’s jaw dropped. “Whoa. That’s… whoa.” He paused to gather himself, “I hope he makes it, he seemed like a great guy.”

Spencer gave him a grim smile.

*** 

An hour later had Spencer sitting at the table with his head in his hands. Morgan had called and told him that from a preliminary scan of the scene it was definitely their guy. Spencer had gotten a furious and almost frantic call from O’Neill about John, and had been forced to tell the man what had happened, and requested that O’Neill have John’s close friends and co-workers come by the office for interviews, and had explained why they wished to see them. 

He had then been sworn at most vociferously. 

Now Spencer was preparing himself to watch the videos of the man he had a… crush on. He let out a jerky sigh. There, he’d admitted it (if only to himself) he had a crush on John. And now he had to watch him be abducted.

JJ and Rossi were in Shanahan’s tiny office, heads bent together over the press release. Morgan was returning to the station with the older, non-digital surveillance tapes from some of the stores with Spencer, while Prentiss remained with the CSI team at the scene. Shanahan was currently interviewing a pair of pimple-faced bag boys who’d been collecting carts during the approximate time of the abduction. While Garcia was working on sorting through the digital video surveillance from not only the grocery store, but also the sub shop, a children’s boutique, a doctor’s office, a bank and a fast food burger joint. The entire parking lot was nearly covered in cameras and Garcia was almost certain that the unsub had slipped up at some point and shown either his face or a license plate or something she could use.

Spencer desperately hoped she was right.

Morgan had told him that the unsub was acting sloppy, when canvassing the CSIs had apparently found blood spatter and a small pool of blood in the loading area behind the stores that they believed might belong to either John or the unsub (they’d put a rush on the DNA, and they’d get the official results in the next 24 hours), but since preliminary testing showed that it matched John’s blood type, AB Positive, it was likely John’s. 

Spencer wondered if perhaps John had put up a fight, which did not bode well for John’s continued health considering this unsub. The good news was that apparently the unsub had also thrown something away in the dumpster behind the store (Morgan had mentioned a very light blood trail to the dumpster).

Morgan walked in just as Spencer rocked his chair back, startling him badly and causing his chair to fall backwards. Luckily the conference room was small, and Morgan was fast, and managed to catch Spencer before he smashed back into the ground.

“Careful Pretty Boy, we need that big brain of yours,” Morgan teased as he set Spencer back upright.

Spencer rolled his eyes, “Thanks Morgan.” He frowned a bit and rubbed at his knee, he’d aggravated it a bit when he’d jerked and gone backwards.

Morgan looked at him in concern, “You up for this Reid?”

Spencer shot him a nasty look, and turned to take the old AV equipment from the officer that had entered behind Morgan. “Thanks.”

The man nodded back, and left quickly, as Morgan popped in the first cassette. “Where’s this one from?” Spencer asked, trying to keep his voice even.

From the look Morgan shot him he didn’t succeed. “The dry cleaners on the far left corner beside the sub place, this is their front camera. We’ll watch for the abduction first, and whatever caused the blood pool second.” Spencer nodded. 

Morgan started the video, and Spencer noted the timestamp in the corner: 06:48 AM. Morgan hit the fast-forward button, and the two men sat watching the video in silence. As they neared the time John would have arrived in the shopping mall, they paid closer attention. Unfortunately, nothing appeared.

There were no images of John, the SUV nor (as far as they knew) the unsub. They’d review the tapes more in depth later, but the preliminary viewing showed absolutely nothing on the dry cleaner’s 1980s video camera. 

The next videos were from the video rental store at the far right end of the strip mall. Once again, the surveillance videos were deemed useless. John had never gone near the store, and his vehicle had been parked towards the mid-left of the parking lot. Both the Chinese restaurant next to the video rental and the pizza place beside that were also, unfortunately, useless. John had apparently stuck to the middle and left hand side of the plaza.

The stores to the left of the pizza place- the children’s boutique, the grocery store, and the doctor’s office had all used more modern digital surveillance. Thus Garcia was going through them with a fine toothed comb. The last shop they had surveillance from, the resale shop in between the doctor’s office and the sub shop, was the one they were most hopeful of getting something useful off of since the shop was between the grocery store and the sub shop and the front camera might have a slight view of the SUV.

Morgan pressed play and, for several too-long minutes, the two men watched in silence as the video fast-forwarded towards the time stamp they needed.

“There!” Spencer called excitedly; he could see the blurred left rear corner of the SUV. Morgan grinned at Spencer, finally they were getting somewhere.

They rewound a bit, watching as the SUV pulled in. “Damn,” Morgan muttered, as it became apparent that the old video camera didn’t have a view of the front half of the car. Spencer sighed in frustration, even if the camera had had a better view; it was unlikely that they’d see anything, since the video quality was rather low.

They watched, silently, for anything else that might be of use. Nothing. Until John walked by the front of the store. Spencer noted that, while his steps were carefully measured, he seemed to be in a slight hurry. His features, from what they could tell, were tense. He walked quickly across the screen, and out of the frame, but both men watched on in worried silence. Within moments John crossed back into the frame, and cut across the parking lot towards the SUV.

Morgan paused the video, “Sheppard never went into the sub shop, no way was he in and out of there that fast.”

“No, something kept him from going in,” Spencer agreed, “Maybe he saw the unsub?”

Morgan made a noncommittal noise. “Maybe,” his voice was doubtful.

“Let’s just keep watching,” Spencer sighed.

Morgan hit play. They watched for another fifteen seconds, before another flash of movement caught their eyes. John had nearly disappeared from the frame, almost to the front of the SUV, when another figure cut across the very bottom of the screen heading directly toward John.

Morgan hit pause, “Bingo.”

Spencer studied the figure. Male, wearing a dark colored ball cap, and a long sleeved flannel shirt. Nothing about him popped out at first glance, since they couldn’t even see his face, in fact the only thing they could see was the back of his head, and the back of his left shoulder. 

“Play it,” Spencer instructed, “he might just be a witness.” But his voice was doubtful.

Morgan complied, as Spencer watched the video more closely than ever. He frowned as the figure’s shoulder jerked lightly as he hurried across the screen towards the SUV.

“Rewind it.” He ordered Morgan. Morgan glanced over, but complied. Spencer watched silently. “Again,” he said as the video returned to where he’d had Morgan rewind it the first time. 

Watching the video for the third time, the movement clicked. “He has a limp. His right leg is either injured or damaged in some way. His left shoulder, see how it’s tilted downwards at a slight angle? And the light jerk every time he steps,” Spencer pointed out.

Morgan nodded, “The injury we hypothesized he had. If he earned it in the line of duty a few years ago-”

“We might have the initial stressor,” Spencer bobbed his head rapidly. “He would have either been moved to desk duty, or received a disability discharge, if an injury left him with a permanent limp.”

“Unless he simply sprained his ankle last week or something,” Morgan played the devil’s advocate.

Spencer shook his head in denial, “No, it’s definitely an old injury. See the way he walks? It shows he has an ingrained compensating movement that involves his upper body, but not his arms. A fresh injury would have an irregular compensating movement that either involves only the leg and hips, or the whole body with too much gesturing, whereas he is clearly practiced at-”

“Reid,” Morgan cut in.

Spencer sighed, “Let’s watch the rest of the video. Maybe we’ll see how he subdued and transported John from the parking lot.”

Morgan nodded and hit play. They could just see the door to the SUV open as John slid in, and they saw the unsub’s left arm reach out to catch the door before it could close, before he stepped nearly out of view of the camera. From the way the man’s body moved, they could tell he’d lifted his other arm, but were unable to see what he did.

They watched tensely as the unsub dragged John roughly out of the SUV onto the ground in the camera’s view. Spencer winced as John’s head hit the pavement hard. He winced again as the unsub viciously kicked the unconscious colonel in the ribs several times. Morgan let out a hiss of sympathy.

Spencer frowned, wishing for both a higher quality video, and a better angle. Hopefully Garcia would have better luck, and actually get an image of the unsub’s face. He was startled out of his wishful thinking as the man leaned down, features blocked by the cap he was wearing.

In his right hand was…

“Is that a curvy dildo?” Morgan’s voice was incredulous as he paused the video with a worried frown.

Spencer frowned too, the previous crimes, although not overtly sexual in nature were all perpetrated upon homosexual men. With the unsub changing his M.O. so much- the daytime abduction, the lack of pre-planning, the change in abduction day. He swallowed harshly, “Perhaps he’s devolved so far he’s unable to control his sexual impulses? We never established whether he was impotent or not. If so the…phallic item… could be the substitute for being unable to act physically upon his urges?” He suggested, sick to his stomach thinking of John being assaulted, raped by this man.

Morgan scowled, “I hope not.” His voice was thick with emotion. His eyes full of sympathy. 

They sat in silence for several long moments, gathering themselves, before Morgan hit play after glancing over to check on Spencer. 

Spencer sat up in surprise as the man stuck the (now collapsed)… thing… into his waistband, like a weapon. He hummed in thought. But what happened next was one of the weirdest things he’d ever seen in his life.

The unsub pulled out something from his pocket, and strapped it to John’s wrist. He pushed something on the bracelet and…

“What the hell!?!”” Spencer exclaimed.

Morgan sat straight up in his chair in shock, “Did that bracelet just make Sheppard invisible?”

“Crap,” said a dismayed voice from the doorway. Spencer turned around in surprise. In the doorway, beside JJ, was a gray haired man in his late fifties, wearing an Air Force Lieutenant General uniform.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Betaed by the fantastic and amazing Evelyna!   
> As a note, both chapters 10 and 11 have now been betaed, and some minor details have changed. It's not necessary to re-read, but I would recommend doing so.

John woke up in pain, but though his head was pounding, his thoughts were clear. He barely managed to contain the instinctive jerk and groan that would give away his return to consciousness to his enemies. 

Whoever they were this time. 

Keeping his eyes closed, he used his other senses to catalogue as much of his surroundings as possible. 

He began by assessing himself. It didn’t take long. 

The most easily noticed thing was that he was naked, he withheld a moan. Even his dog tags were missing. His aching wrists and the too-familiar feeling of hard, thick metal surrounding his wrists let him know his arms were being held above his head by chains. He had to bite his tongue to keep from whimpering at the realization. The heavy weight around his ankles told him that his feet were also chained. Despite his best intentions he could feel his breathing pick up, and his heart begin to pound.

Unlike with his aunt… with Aston, he wasn’t suspended strappado style. This time he seemed to be held almost spread eagle. His arms were separated, far apart, far enough that neither hand would be able to grasp the chain securing it to the ceiling easily in order to lift his weight off of his wrists. His legs were also separated, held apart by chains.

John bit his tongue again to keep from moaning, he did not like this at all. He struggled to regain his composure, but knew he was well on his way to either a panic attack or a flashback. He could handle a hell of a lot, but being held with his arms in chains above his head in any way was one of his worst triggers. Especially since he was naked.

He fought back viciously against the encroaching terror; he knew that this was by no means the time to flip out. 

Slowly, bit by bit he pushed back the fear, the dread and the shock. He strained against the oncoming nightmares. He could tell he was still on the verge of giving in to the mind numbing terror, but he was holding it back. 

For now.

His ribs ached. Not the sharp pain of a broken or cracked rib, but rather the constant throbbing soreness of badly bruised ribs, the pain increasing as he breathed in. His head pounded, and he felt the dull ache of a new bruise on the left side of his head. And his right arm throbbed, as if it had been ripped open and someone had gone rummaging through it. John could feel the itch of dried blood on his arm, and the pull of a new scab. 

After several moment’s thought John’s heart sank. The unsub had not only known about his subcutaneous locator beacon but had removed it. Meaning the man had knowledge of SGC practices. And that the SGC couldn’t simply scan and find him.

John felt his hope begin to wither. To fade away. He tried desperately to cling to any hope of rescue, or escape. Thinking of escape allowed John to refocus his attention to the current situation. 

He listened closely, hoping to glean some insight into his location without opening his eyes yet. A steady drip of water from his right, the tickle of the lightest breeze against his skin, curling lazily through the stale, dry air, the echoing groan of the metal rafters, and dull creak of the walls. The acrid tang of heated metal in the air, the dry dust of cement. A warehouse. He was held naked in chains in a warehouse.

Of course he was. 

‘Because it doesn’t get more clichéd then naked in chains in a warehouse,’ John thought with dark humor, ‘ If I open my eyes will there be an ‘artfully’ posed naked bimbo nearby?’

He hoped not, he really didn’t want to have to save anyone but himself today. Or see a naked bimbo. He honestly didn’t want to be here at all, this was a nightmare come true. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest.

As the lightest scent of blood and bleach wafted by, John couldn’t hold in the moan any longer, too busy pushing back the overwhelming panic. He opened his eyes, peering uneasily through the shadowed room, as he carefully put his weight on his feet. Even if the unsub (his kidnapper, whispered a treacherous part of his mind) were there, he’d given away the fact that he was conscious with his moan.

Luck was on his side, for once. He was alone.

John looked around, carefully taking measured breaths. He was right, he was in a warehouse. Abandoned, judging from the rocks, scrap metal and dust. But, despite the rubble, the walls were solid, and the windows and skylights covered thickly. The only light came from a few scattered, flickering bare bulbs. He couldn’t find a camera, but that was no guarantee. So abandoned, but kept in good condition.

‘In working condition,’ John’s eyes went wide as he saw what had to be the unsub’s work table. He whimpered. Rocking back and forth on his feet as best he could. But he couldn’t give in to the terror, not if he wanted to live. 

He sucked in a breath and counted out Fibonacci primes in order to calm himself. ‘2, 3, 5, 13, 89…’

As he regained his composure he attempted to look over the meticulously clean and neat tool table as clinically as possible. The knife they were expecting: a Vietnam-era Camillus Jet Pilot Survival Knife with a 5 inch blade. A grinding wheel, honing steel and a razor strop to keep the knife in near-mint condition, honed to a razor edge. Extra chains and cuffs, kept meticulously clean. Three large jugs of bleach beneath the table. A handle. To what John couldn’t see, but he had a guess.

The portable fire pit the handle led into gave that away.

John shuddered. He’d been branded before. It wasn’t something he liked to think about.

The acrid scent of seared flesh. The burning, freezing, screaming pain. The infection from untreated burns. They’d saved his hand, after he’d been recovered, but there was no way to remove the puffy, raised, twisted scar on his right wrist.

The worst of it all was that his Bubbe, his beloved grandmother, had cried harder at seeing the twisted flesh that marked him as a possession, than she had when his grandfather had died. She’d sobbed into his chest clutching her own mark of slavery, forever imprinted on her left arm in blue numbers. The memory of his Bubbe’s sobs was more painful than the months he’d spent as a prisoner where he’d received the brand.

John closed his eyes and shook off the image. Now was not the time to get lost in his memories.

He opened his eyes again. Looking, listening, desperately for anything useful. Nothing.

The only things in the large room were the chains holding him hostage, the pristine tableau of torture, a neatly coiled hose, a stack of tarps, and the scattered bits of rubble pushed into corners. The chains secured him to a solid support beam above him, and two metal loops in the floor, he had almost no slack and was barely able to stand flat-footed. 

The nearby hose leaked slightly, a small puddle beneath it, a good sign that the water was constant. It was the source of the dripping he’d heard. The flickering, bare bulbs showed exposed wires and had extra cables leading away. Jury-rigged. John assumed both the water and the electric were stolen. 

Which led to the question, did the unsub own the warehouse or was he simply squatting here?

John closed his eyes. Focusing on the case from an analytical standpoint let him keep his head better. The unsub craved control. No way he didn’t own the warehouse outright. The power and water were out of his control- why?

To hide?

He breathed jerkily in. And out. What if the unsub hid too well? John held in a whimper once more.

This man wasn’t his Aunt Edith. He’d been kept in Aston’s factory- rusted and decrepit, filthy and mired in the offal, blood and excrement of countless children, while covered in the overwhelming with the scent of fear- for nearly three months. She’d likely have kept him to play with until his body had totally given out.

This man, however. He was different. His victims didn’t last for months. They lasted for days. Two days. John only had two days left to live. And he’d be spending them reliving his worst nightmares.

John’s eyes rolled in his head, and he felt what little amount of calm he’d been clutching desperately slip away.

His breathing picked up as John fought back the rising panic attack. He jerked in the chains as his chest heaved, and the rattling made him shiver in fear. He felt a trickle of blood slip down from his right wrist, the mangled flesh ripping open as it was rubbed raw by the rough metal cuffs.

He choked back a hysterical laugh. He was in hell. He panted through his mouth, forcing himself to lift his chin off his chest to assess the damage. Not too bad.

Yet.

***

John’s head was slumped against his left arm; he’d been alone long enough that he was able to mostly bring himself back under control. He’d done it often enough before. He knew it wouldn’t last.

He knew how to survive torture. Hell, he taught others to survive it. 

You did whatever the fuck you had to do to stay alive. To stay sane. To escape.

Everyone broke eventually; the question was how long you could hold out. Before or after your guys found you?

And would they bother to keep you alive after you broke?

John knew that this guy, he wouldn’t keep you alive even if you hadn’t broken yet. He was on a schedule.

Question was, was this waiting because he was trying to freak John out or because he had something else he had to do?

John looked up at his right arm and wrist and grimaced. He had streaks of blood running down his arm. 

It hadn’t been too bad until he’d slipped while moving his legs around earlier, he thought it was about two hours ago (if his sense of time was intact), which was roughly three hours since he’d woken up. Maybe. His sense of time was likely blown to hell and back. His cut from the removal of his locator had ripped open and his wrist had been damaged further. 

The warehouse had darkened considerably since he’d awoken; John guessed it would soon be nightfall. He wondered when the unsub would finally show his face. 

Would it be today? 

Tomorrow? 

Or perhaps Friday?

After all, every other victim they knew about had vanished on Friday night, and been killed two days later. Would he hang here, wasting away from thirst, until then?

John hoped not. A knife through the heart would go a lot faster than dehydration. But maybe he’d die before the unsub came back, perhaps he would be better off that way.

He sighed, wishing he could move more. His shoulders ached horribly. Particularly his left one. He’d dislocated it badly in a helicopter crash in the Balkans ten years before, and had had to have surgery to repair it once he’d made it back to base over a month later. He’d been lucky then, he’d regained his full range of motion, and if he didn’t quite possess the same strength as he’d had prior to the crash in his left arm, he’d come very, very close.

He’d been warned that if he’d injured it again it would be a disaster, and he’d have permanent damage. He could only pray it would hold. 

His arms burned with the strain of being held in such an awkward position. His muscles pulled horribly. His wrists ached dully; it’d worsen as time went on. It was a feeling he’d been trying to forget since he was eight. His arm muscles would go numb due to lack of proper blood flow soon enough. He flexed and moved them as well as he could, but his range was severely limited. He grimaced as he felt the thin flesh on his left wrist finally give in and tear, blood creeping slowly down both arms now.

He’d take being chained to a chair or wall over being held standing with his arms above his head any day. It was much easier to remain healthy.

Most of his previous captors had held him in a cell, a cave, an abandoned building and on one particularly memorable occasion in an old theatre’s prop closet. He’d managed to escape that time using a teakettle, a rubber chicken-thing, three bobby pins, and what looked to be a moth eaten toga. 

John cleared his throat and licked his lips. He was starting to get thirsty, not a good sign. He thought back to the other victims- starved and dehydrated. It was the middle of summer, and although Colorado Springs tended to have fairly mild summers, not getting much above the high-70s, in a metal warehouse without windows it would be sweltering. 

And freezing come nightfall. John could already feel the temperature dropping, his sweat cooling. It had been cold the last few nights, not getting much above 50˚, he doubted tonight would be any warmer. Not only was he in danger from a serial killer and dehydration, but hypothermia and heat stroke were risks too.

He eyed the blood dripping down his arms. The more blood he lost the quicker he’d become dehydrated. Unfortunately between his shaking arms from being held above his head and the body-wracking shivers that would likely come tonight the wounds on his wrist wouldn’t have any chance of closing. In fact they’d likely get larger and inflamed, eventually becoming infected. If he lived that long.

And when the unsub showed up. Well, John knew he’d lose a lot more blood before this was over. He sighed and closed his eyes. Best to save energy, he couldn’t sleep in his current position due to the risk he’d suffocate, but he could at least relax as best he could. 

He’d need his strength.

***

By the time sunlight began to creep back into the warehouse, John knew he had mild hypothermia and the signs of early dehydration. His body shivered from the cold, and his hands were numb (although whether that was lack of circulation or mild hypothermia he didn’t know). His mouth was dry and his tongue felt heavy, and he couldn’t stop thinking about that last cup of water he’d had at the station and the dripping hose nearby. 

His heart was pounding, beating a rhythm against his chest that echoed into his ears. He felt tired, and his mind seemed to be more sluggish than yesterday as his head pounded in rhythm with his heart. And, most tellingly, he didn’t feel much of an urge to urinate- a sign that his body was rationing its available water supply to keep him alive. 

He knew he would warm today as the warehouse heat up, making the hypothermia the far lesser danger, and heat stroke a rising one. And starvation wasn’t a worry until a couple more weeks had passed.

Dehydration, on the other hand, would kill him far more quickly. He had (maybe) two more full days of consciousness if he didn’t get any water. 

John wondered when the unsub would come back. He wondered who it was. He hadn’t seen much during his capture. Dark hair under a Colorado Rockies cap pulled low, a cleft chin, a burn scar on the right of his neck and part of his face, nails bit to the quick in a too tight grip around a Zat.

John sighed, something about him had seemed familiar, but his thoughts were too disjointed to work out why.

John closed his eyes, and tried not to listen to the hose drip. God, he was thirsty.

***

John’s entire body was in pain. The warehouse was now far too warm. He sweated far too little. He’d probably been here about twenty four hours now. 

John determinedly flexed his hands and arms to keep his blood circulating into them. Then he bounced on his toes, bent his knees and moved his legs as much as he could. He’d made sure to do so every now and then. In this position, gravity was a danger. If he didn’t keep moving his legs fairly frequently blood would rush to his feet, pooling there, causing him to pass out. And due to the continuing lack of blood flow going to his heart and brain he’d die. 

His wrists and hands and arms alternated between burning in pain and a complete lack of feeling as he opened and closed them and moved his arms about. Slowly feeling began to return. He winced; he could do without the pins and needles on top of everything else. But if he wanted to keep his hands in working condition, he needed to keep his circulation up. 

But, on the down side, his shoulders pulled badly, particularly his left. John could feel the muscles beginning to strain. His legs ached with the strain of the awkward position he was strapped in, and his ankles chafed where the chains rubbed. His wrists and ankles were inflamed from the cuffs too. His lungs struggled to get air properly; bruised ribs and his arms raised like this prevented the proper intake of oxygen. 

He hoped that the BAU were close to finding him. He wondered whether he’d live to see them again. To see Spencer again, in particular. John sighed, and swore to himself that if he survived this he’d invite Spencer out for dinner. Or something. He’d never invited anyone on a date before.

But, really, what did he have to lose? Even in the military, he could be discreet, and he knew Spencer could be too. He was lonely; he missed the companionship of having a partner, even if he rarely saw them. Plus, it was hard not to think about love when surrounded by couples as he was on Atlantis.

He and Spencer would make a nice couple, John thought distantly, if not a slightly awkward one. Spencer was good looking, always a bonus. And Spencer was his intellectual peer. Which was nice. Only a few of the scientists on Atlantis would be able to really keep up with him if he got going one of these days. Rodney, Radek, Miko, Sanders from Genetics, Bryce from Oceanography, and maybe Anderson from Medical could do so. Not that John ever let his mouth get away from him. He’d learned to keep his mouth shut and his intelligence hidden far too young, and far too violently to change now. 

John’s mind stopped. What had he been thinking about again? He couldn’t remember, his mind felt heavy and sluggish. He was so thirsty. Maybe he’d been thinking of water. Water would be nice. Maybe Spencer would bring water with him if they came to rescue him. He seemed the type to be prepared.

He wondered how much longer he could last here before he had permanent damage. Or, if he was unlucky, he already was permanently damaged.

He hoped not, if he couldn’t be cleared as being fit for duty. Well, he didn’t know what he’d do. He’d been in the military for nearly sixteen years, he’d planned on staying in it until he either died or they forced him out.

Maybe he could teach science or math? John’s thoughts drifted to the image of him trying to explain logarithms to a bunch of high school kids. It ended with him making them run laps while chanting cubic exponentiation in cadence. He’d done something similar last year with a bunch of rookie privates who thought they didn’t need to learn basic Wraith biology.

Somehow he didn’t think the school system would approve of his methods. Or a college.

Maybe he could open a restaurant? He liked cooking, it was relaxing, and his Bubbe and he had taken lessons together when he was a teenager as some form of therapy or bonding or something. He still wasn’t too sure. But no, he’d end up stabbing some bitchy customer. Or maybe dumping hot grease on them. Not a good plan, he wanted to avoid ending up in prison like his father’s side of the family. 

He frowned. Something was different. Was that a car? 

His head jerked up. He struggled to clear his thoughts. Should he shout? Was it a passing vehicle, or the unsub come to torture him at last? Well, torture him more? Could he risk giving away he was awake if it was the unsub? Would it make a difference?

By the time his thoughts had circled back around and begun to twist around each other as he was unable to reach a conclusion the vehicle had come to a stop and the engine had been shut off. 

He felt panicked, worried, terrified, and barely kept the rising flood of memories at bay; the muddled confusion of his thoughts was not helping. He lowered his head, allowing it to loll uselessly against his chest. John closed his eyes as the warehouse door scraped open behind him.

He feigned unconsciousness, heart pounding, wondering if it could buy him any sort of advantage. He heard the footsteps, slightly off beat, giving away a limp, draw nearer. His terror ratcheted up and up. The man circled around him, stopping directly in front of him.

The man hummed appreciatively. John barely suppressed a horrified shudder.

“Hello Cash.” John’s eyes flew open in shock, and rising hope. “I hope your enjoying your accommodations.” The malicious tone and expression sent confusion, fear and anger crashing through him. This couldn’t be. “We’ll be spending quite a bit of quality time together over the next few days. I’ve got something real special planned. After all, I have so much I owe you.” The man John thought he knew practically spat the last words. His face twisted in fury.

“No…” John whispered. The flippant comment he’d prepared slipping away in a haze of overwhelming emotions. Betrayal, he thought distantly, that’s what these feelings are, betrayal.

“Oh yes,” the man in front of him leered angrily. “Yes indeed.” 

He pulled out a folded over piece of cloth and reached up to tie it around John’s eyes. John thrashed his head, trying to keep the blindfold away. But the other man backhanded John so hard his head spun, his lip split, and he jerked roughly in the chains, causing a surge of pain to run through John’s arms and (to his very distantly buried relief) his wrists and hands.

As John fought to regain his senses, he felt the blindfold tied tightly around his head.

“Oh, Johnny boy, I can’t wait to hear you scream.”


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my amazing beta Evelyna, who spent hours helping talk me through this chapter, and even helped to write a part of it. I couldn't have done it without you!

June 3, 2009

Spencer’s fingers beat a rhythm as he watched Prentiss and Morgan talk with General O’Neill. Again. The previous evening, following O’Neill’s dismayed oath in the doorway behind Morgan and him, had been a night of recriminations, accusations, vehement and creative swearing. 

And one of the finest examples of stonewalling Spencer had ever seen. 

Within moments of seeing the video of John being (and Spencer could still hardly believe what he’d seen) turned invisible, O’Neill had been on the phone and a veritable swarm of men in all black uniforms had appeared and rapidly confiscated everything. All of it, from the videos to a small blood covered watch-battery sized object that had been found in the dumpster by the CSIs to John’s dog tags, all of it had been seized so rapidly that Spencer’s head had reeled.

Of course the fact that one of the men in black had been Sergeant Stackhouse, who had given them a bright smile and a cheery wave as he collected the security tapes without even the slightest look of concern for his commanding officer, might have had something to do with that.

Upon seeing Spencer frowning at him, Stackhouse had leaned forward, “Don’t worry, Doc. The Colonel’s gotten out of far worse situations then this.”

The man behind him had snorted in amusement as he’d carried a box around Morgan’s scowling form, “That’s an understatement.”

Stackhouse had rolled his eyes; given Spencer a friendly slap on the shoulder, shot Morgan a flippant, two-fingered salute, and walked out of the police station without a backward look.

An hour later another black van had pulled up, this one containing a dark haired Lieutenant Colonel who had given General O’Neill a baleful look, “Why is it I can never come to Colorado without their being some sort of disaster happening, sir?” 

O’Neill had held up his hands, “It wasn’t me this time Davis. Blame Sheppard.”

The Lieutenant Colonel had proceeded to glare at O’Neill and mutter under his breath as he had demanded Morgan, JJ and Spencer sign non-disclosure agreements.

“I’ll work on getting them the security clearance for a minimal briefing,” Davis had told O’Neill, “Tomorrow morning at the latest.”

 

***

 

That had been yesterday afternoon. Now it was nearly, Spencer glanced at his watch, three in the morning. None of them had slept yet.

Spencer refocused his attention on the interrogation room. He winced. It wasn’t going well- O’Neill seemed to be leading Morgan and Prentiss around by the nose. 

He still didn’t understand why the General had even agreed to speak with them in interrogation. He wasn’t a suspect, he wasn’t a witness, and he wasn’t close to John. Which gave them no real advantage. At least the man had agreed to contact John’s closest friends and colleagues and get them to Colorado. 

O’Neill was canny and crazy like a fox, but seemed to prefer playing dumb. Prentiss had muttered something about Black Ops. at some point. Not to mention he obviously had a lot of political leverage, Garcia had given them a basic background and the man was well known in Washington.

Admittedly he was mostly known for somehow having the President’s ear while being completely insane. They had to tread carefully because O’Neill could easily have them pulled off the case with his connections. The only real leverage they had at the moment was the profile. Spencer was fairly certain that the profile was the reason O’Neill had stuck around for so long.

Spencer watched as General O’Neill raised a sardonic eyebrow at something Morgan had said and smiled lazily. Spencer sighed and wished Hotch were here. Hotch would have been the best of their team to handle the General.

Morgan and Prentiss were second on that list since O’Neill had chewed Rossi a new one. And a man like O’Neill was unlikely to respect either JJ, a petite, pretty woman doing a ‘man’s’ job, or Spencer and his high IQ and babbling.

If Hotch were here things would have probably moved a lot faster. Rossi was balking at O’Neill’s conditions for the teams’ continued presence on the case. He hadn’t refused, but he’d kept arguing, until he’d decided to try going over O’Neill’s head. 

Spencer looked over at the small conference room where Rossi was trying to reach the Director of the FBI. Glancing back at O’Neill he doubted Rossi’s plan would work. Hotch would have probably have just agreed to the conditions, they weren’t that odd or difficult to comply with and mostly involved keeping John’s people in the loop. Hotch knew how to swallow his pride better than Rossi.

Spencer eyed the interrogation room skeptically. All that seemed to be happening in there were rising tempers. Particularly Morgan’s. O’Neill seemed to be adept at getting under the other man’s skin. Not that Morgan hadn’t gotten in a few hits of his own. But nerves were fraying badly due to the combination of personality clashes, frustration and lack of sleep.

“Look, no matter how many times you ask the answer is still going to be, ‘No, I can’t tell you any of my shiny, sparkly secrets.’ Why, you may ask?” O’Neill drawled in a painfully dry tone as he looked at Morgan and Prentiss with his chin in one hand, “Because they are very, very classified.” He said the last sentence slowly, as if speaking to a particularly slow two-year-old.

“Look, General, don’t you care about Sheppard at all?” Morgan snapped, his temper rising to O’Neill’s bait, “I thought the military was all gung-ho about that ‘leave no man behind’ thing.”

O’Neill’s expression turned cold, “This conversation is over,” his voice was dark, dangerous as he sat up straight, “I’ll consider allowing your team to stay on this case. Or some of them at any rate. At least Agent Prentiss here seems to have sense. And that Reid kid, well, I certainly know the value of geniuses on your side. As for you and that dumbass Rossi, well…”

Thunderous expression on his face, O’Neill stood up and marched out of the interrogation room he was in. Spencer heard JJ sigh next to him. 

“Way to go Morgan,” Prentiss shook her head in exasperation. 

Spencer looked over at JJ in dismay. She met his gaze with a sad look of her own. Every hour that slipped past due to macho posturing, angry accusations, and a lack of security clearances was an hour less John had to live.

 

***

 

Four hours later found the BAU team either asleep or nearly there when the speaker phone began to beep. Most of the team shot awake at the noise, although JJ had simply looked up blearily, said “Will, it’s your turn to get Henry,” and gone right back to sleep.

Morgan leaned forward and hit the answer button as Spencer sleepily rested his chin in his hands, “Hello?”

“Is that you hot stuff?” Even Garcia sounded exhausted.

“It’s me, Mama, and the rest of the team is listening in.” Morgan answered.

“Well then, good morning my pretties!” Garcia attempted to sound cheerful.

“What’s wrong Garcia?” Rossi asked, frowning. He was still in a poor mood from the chewing out O’Neill had given him the night before. 

Garcia sounded sulky as she replied, “I just received about a hundred different medical tests and brain scans. Apparently there was some worry about me being some kind of enemy plant or something.”

“Enemy plant? What kind of enemy plant?” Morgan sounded incredulous, and Spencer had to agree that it was extremely unlikely that Garcia was a spy.

“I’m not allowed to talk about it. I had to sign a confidentiality agreement. But I’m allowed to keep working the case,” Garcia muttered angrily.

Spencer’s eyebrows shot up. He looked over at Morgan who looked equally surprised. 

“O-kay…” Morgan drawled out slowly. “Should I ask?

“No,” Garcia said flatly, “I don’t feel like ending up in Leavenworth or Gitmo today.”

“Right,” Morgan nodded, despite the fact Garcia couldn’t see him, “Not asking.” He paused, seeming to gather himself. “You got anything to share with us Baby Girl?”

“I found three more bodies for you.” Garcia sounded sad, “Gregory Barton, 44. Cliff Williamson, 40. And Kyle Dumont, 38. All were killed in July of 2005.”

“Wait, three guys in the same month?” Morgan’s eyebrows nearly hit his hairline.

“Yeah, their bodies were found following the first, third and fifth weekends of July in Kansas, Utah and New Mexico respectively. Which is why we didn’t hear of them until just now,” Garcia said.

Spencer frowned, “That’s odd.”

“What’s odd?” JJ’s voice was slurred with sleep.

“Our unsub,” Spencer explained, “Apparently he went on a short spree nearly four years ago now, but didn’t devolve completely. Instead he appears to have built his schedule after losing control on this spree. That’s extremely rare. Normally once an unsub starts to devolve they don’t pull themselves back together. Walter Kern did something similar, going dormant and hiding his activities for twenty years.” 

Spencer purposefully avoided mentioning the Reaper, “But I can’t think of a single example of a serial killer who devolved and managed to get himself back together and set up a schedule. Unless there are a lot more bodies to be found, our unsub did just that.”

“Huh,” was all JJ had to say, still half asleep.

 

***

 

Spencer was thankful that General O’Neill had more sense than Rossi. He’d shut down Rossi’s attempts at negotiation, and then, when the Director of the FBI had ordered Rossi to agree to whatever O’Neill said, instead of gloating he had simply handed over the non-disclosure agreements and told them they were, “Cleared for minimal information on an as needed basis. And that the ‘as needed’ is decided by my guys, not yours.”

Admittedly O’Neill’s assertion that the base dealt in experimental technology, and that John’s base was their field testing area was a bit… weak. Especially after Spencer had pointed out that John had told them he ran an international garrison base on the frontlines. 

O’Neill’s response had been a flat, “Yeah. That too.”

Spencer was currently choking down whatever greasy thing it was Shanahan had picked up for them for breakfast on his way in. As he swallowed down the last bite he heard the approach of O’Neill’s promised delivery of John’s friends and co-workers. 

“Why am I here again?” A loud, strident voice demanded angrily. “Sheppard’s gone and gotten himself kidnapped, again. We should be out looking for him! Not wasting our time speaking with a bunch of morons who aren’t even worth one of those quacks calling themselves psychologists!” 

“Cause the General said,” Spencer recognized Ronon Dex’s gruff voice.

The loud voice squawked angrily, but before he could formulate a reply a woman said, “Rodney, General O’Neill believes these people can help us to locate John. Are you so willing to refuse the help they so freely offer?”

There was a loud snort in reply, as seven people entered the conference room. The six men and one woman included three familiar faces. Ronon Dex was there, as was Colonel Cameron Mitchell and First Sergeant Stackhouse; Ronon was wearing BDUs, while Mitchell was in his Service dress, as was Stackhouse. There was another man in an Air Force Lieutenant Colonel’s uniform and the other two men were wearing civilian clothes. One in jeans and a t-shirt and an open over-shirt with receding hair and angry blue eyes; the other had an open face and cheery eyes and had a kind look about him; he wore jeans and a t-shirt. The only woman looked around the room at them all curiously; she was dark skinned with auburn hair and wore a long skirt and peasant top.

“Thank you all for coming,” Rossi looked over the group, “We’re all here because we want the same thing- to find John Sheppard. I’m David Rossi; I’m in charge of the team. This is SSA Derek Morgan, our expert in obsessional crimes and explosives,” Morgan nodded. “SSA Emily Prentiss specializes in linguistics and terrorism, as well as child advocacy,” Emily bowed her head slightly in acknowledgement. “SSA Jennifer Jareau is our media and police liaison,” JJ smiled at them. “And finally this is Dr. Spencer Reid, who has too many specialties to list,” Rossi finished dryly. Spencer shot the older man a look but waved at John’s friends.

The woman of the other group glanced at the men around her briefly before rolling her eyes, “Greetings and thank you for your help in this time of need,” her voice was serene, “I am Teyla Emmagan,” she bowed slightly. “With me are Ronon Dex,” Dex grunted. “Dr. Rodney McKay,” the angry man huffed and muttered something that caused Emmagan to glare at him. He wilted slightly under her look.

Emmagan continued as if nothing had happened, “Dr. Carson Beckett,” the kind looking man smiled genially at them. “First Sergeant David Stackhouse,” the Marine shot them a friendly grin. “Lieutenant Colonel Evan Lorne,” Lorne gave them a solemn nod. “And Colonel Cameron Mitchell,” Mitchell nodded at them too.

Rossi nodded at Emmagan, “Pleasure to meet you all, I just wish it was under better circumstances.” He glanced around at both the team and John’s friends, “Let’s get started.”

 

***

 

“So I’m going to ask you some questions about Colonel Sheppard,” JJ began as Spencer watched from behind the two-way mirror, “Just answer them as honestly as possible.”

“May I ask why you wish to know about John?” Emmagan asked.

“Well, Ms. Emmagan-”

“Teyla, please.”

“Teyla. I’m JJ.” Teyla nodded regally, “We wish to know about Colonel Sheppard because the more we understand about the Colonel the more we will understand about why the unsub, the criminal, targeted him specifically. And often, if we know why the unsub selects certain victims, we can find the unsub themselves by tracking them backwards.”

Teyla nodded, “I understand. It is like trying to hunt a velner beast. First you must know how to hunt the koplu.”

JJ blinked in confusion, “Uh, sure.” She shook her head lightly, “Could you tell me how you met Colonel Sheppard?”

“It was nearly five years ago now,” Teyla shook her head, “It is hard to believe it has been so long. He and several others of his military had come to our village seeking a temporary refuge. They were concerned that flooding in the area would damage their base.”

“And Colonel Sheppard was the leader?” JJ asked.

Teyla laughed, “No. John was still a Major. Colonel Sumner was the leader of the military. My people greeted them as they entered the village and brought them to the…” Teyla paused, tilting her head slightly, “I believe communal tent is a proper term?”

JJ nodded, “Sort of like a Native American longhouse? A place for groups to gather for meetings and feasts and such?” 

Spencer winced. That was not the purpose of most Native American longhouses, no matter what Hollywood claimed.

“Yes, that is a similar concept.” Teyla said.

“So your people greeted the soldiers in the village…” JJ prompted.

“Yes. Halling, my co-leader brought them to see me. I am my people’s foremost trade negotiator,” Teyla explained matter-of-factly, without conceit, “The leader, Colonel Sumner began to list what they needed without taking time to greet us or engage in any of the traditional trade rituals. It was easy to see he saw us as lesser, simply because we did not have much technology. My people were most offended. It was John who saved the meeting from going from ‘bad to worse’ as you Americans say.”

 

***

 

The video was edited, blurred in various parts for some unknown reason. Lorne had shrugged when they’d originally questioned him on it, saying that the computer science department had slapped it together in a few hours to attempt to get it to the BAU fast enough to be useful. He’d explained briefly that the footage had been pulled off of a surveillance camera, and that John and his team had rarely socialized in the public areas, preferring private rooms.

Spencer watched carefully, John’s team was in some sort of recreational room. McKay and Dex were sitting on a couch, eating off of trays. Teyla was on a separate sofa, a bowl of popcorn on her lap. John was sitting beside her, reaching over occasionally to grab a handful of popcorn, but his eyes were half shut, and he seemed nearly asleep.

“Hey!” McKay’s whine was piercing, even on video. “Give me back my fries, Conon!”

“Make me,” Dex grinned slyly as he shoved two fries in his mouth, his other arm curved protectively around his tray.

McKay sputtered.

“Ronon,” Teyla said lightly, and Dex rolled his eyes but handed the rest of McKay’s fries back.

John was laughing lightly at the scene, but his body language told another story to the watching profilers. He was exhausted, and looked to be in pain. His brow was furrowed, and he winced when he shifted to grab for popcorn. His hooded eyes darted from corner to corner of the room, and one hand occasionally came up as if to touch his heart, before jerking away without contact.

The rest of the team, despite their joking and laughter, were tense. They watched John as if he might disappear, and McKay had deep bags under his eyes as if he hadn’t slept in a while, that were echoed in the haunted weariness on Teyla and Ronon’s faces.

“What are we going to watch?” John’s voice was hoarse, as if he had a bad cough.

“‘Fast and the Furious’,” Ronon said.

“No way,” McKay protested, “We watched that last time! What about ‘The Manchurian Candidate’, we haven’t seen that in ages! ”

“Rodney!” Teyla scolded, her eyes flicking over to John, “I do not believe that is an appropriate choice. Perhaps something more… cheerful. Such as ‘Dodgeball’?”

Spencer watched as John watched the other three members of his team bicker over movie choices in fond amusement, before he spoke up. 

“‘The NeverEnding Story’,” John finally suggested hoarsely.

His teammates traded looks before rapidly agreeing to John’s choice and the screen went black as the first beat of the movie’s ‘80s techno song intro began.

Spencer frowned; something had happened to John shortly before the video was shot, he could only hope that it hadn’t been too bad. He closed his eyes briefly; he hoped they’d find John this time before anything too bad happened too.

 

***

 

“So you’re the senior NCO on base?” Rossi questioned Stackhouse. 

“Yes sir,” Stackhouse nodded.

“And you’re a Marine, correct?”

Stackhouse looked down at his uniform and deadpanned, “No, I’m wearing this because it’s so darned comfy.” 

“Sergeant…” Rossi trailed off.

Stackhouse rolled his eyes, “If you don’t want a ridiculous answer, don’t ask stupid questions.”

Rossi was getting frustrated. Stackhouse was definitely not acting like most Marine NCOs. He couldn’t help but wonder if John had something to do with that.

Rossi narrowed his eyes, “Alright then, let’s get down to business Sergeant.”

“Yes, let’s,” Stackhouse agreed, “What do you want to know?”

“How was Colonel Sheppard as a CO?” Rossi began broadly.

“Good,” Stackhouse said simply. At Rossi’s look he added, “Best CO I’ve ever had.”

Rossi raised a skeptical eyebrow, “Even though he’s Air Force?” 

“Even though,” Stackhouse said firmly. “I’ll be honest, at first we were all real skeptical of this Zoomie leading a mostly Marine Company, with a couple of international troops thrown in for good measure. But the Colonel, he proved real fast that he was good, even though he’s Air Force. We all would walk through hell and back for the Colonel, because we know he would for us. Has done a number of times.”

“How do you mean?”

 

***

 

“Sheppard’s a real lead from the front sort of guy,” Lieutenant Colonel Lorne shrugged, “Even with a hole in his gut the man went out looking for Teyla when she was kidnapped by one of our enemies.”

“Hole in his gut?” Morgan arched an eyebrow.

Behind the two-way mirror, Spencer frowned. He glanced over at Prentiss, “John had two scars on his abdomen that were only a year or two old. One he told us needed abdominal exploration after he was impaled, remember?”

Prentiss nodded and shushed him.

“Then the bombs went off and the building collapsed, trapping us inside.” Lorne was telling the story behind his earlier statement. “Sheppard had only gotten back from being missing in action for twelve days, and off he went on a rescue mission that turned out to be a trap. We lost two guys, and I had a broken leg, but Sheppard had a re-bar through his gut and a large beam had left him trapped.” 

Lorne shook his head like he still couldn’t believe it, “After he was hauled out of the rubble, Sheppard not only declined the surgery he required, he convinced the CMO to only ‘patch him up’ so he could go back out to keep searching for Teyla. Sheppard took McKay and Ronon into a base that was under fire by our guys, in order to sneak out Teyla. 

“Teyla then gave birth in the middle of everything,” Lorne waved his hands around dramatically, “While Sheppard and Ronon were off setting up charges to distract the enemy, McKay, McKay, delivered Torren. Their... aircraft was found, so Sheppard ended up stealing an enemy aircraft and flying the thing with a newborn in his arms.”

Spencer blinked in shock and told Prentiss, “That sounds like some sort of movie scene.”

 

***

 

“Oh, aye, the good Colonel often seems like something of a movie hero. But then he ends up back on my operating table for some scrape he’s gotten himself into. The man’s as human as you or I, lass.” Dr. Carson Beckett gave JJ a wink, “If a bit more of a handful then most men.”

JJ smiled softly, “I can only imagine. I realize, Doctor Beckett, that you aren’t able to tell me anything about the Colonel’s medical history.”

JJ paused, and Beckett filled in her expectant silence with an, “Yes, that’s right.”

“But would you be willing to tell me about him as a patient?”

Beckett seemed to think on it for a moment, “I suppose that would be fine.”

“Thank you Doctor. How is Colonel Sheppard’s behavior as a patient, in general?”

Beckett shrugged, “Normal, for the most part. My biggest complaint with the lad is that he hates being in the infirmary, and as soon as he can he’ll pull some fool stunt to escape.” He rolled his eyes.

“So he doesn’t follow medical directions well, then?” JJ arched a curious eyebrow.

“No, no, nothing like that. The man waits until the day before or so that he’s to be released and disappears,” Beckett gave her a slight smile, “It’s more a game than anything.” 

“I see,” JJ said, but her tone made it clear she didn’t.

“He always follows any follow-up care or procedures to the letter. He takes his health seriously, eats healthy, exercises daily, all of those things,” Beckett said earnestly.

JJ nods, “So he goes to follow up appointments and takes all of his medications without complaint then?”

“Oh, aye, well almost,” Beckett agreed. “The Colonel refuses any sort of sleeping pills, but he makes all of his appointments. Even his appointments with Dr. Andrews, the base psychologist, he makes sure he attends. Sets a wonderful example for the troops, a lot of military men seem to think seeing a mental health professional means they’re ‘weak’ or some rot like that,” Beckett shook his head in disbelief, “But Colonel Sheppard always makes sure his men understand it’s just another sort of check-up, and not something to attach a stigma to.”

JJ smiled, “That’s great, we’ve had quite a few cases where soldiers who saw and did too much didn’t receive proper treatment, and end up getting stuck reliving the past.”

Beckett sighed, “Aye, I’ve seen it myself.”

“And Colonel Sheppard is psychologically healthy?” JJ pressed lightly.

Amusement flashed across Beckett’s face before he replied, “As much as any of us are out there.”

JJ’s lips pressed together lightly at the strange response, but seemed to decide not to press further. She changed the subject slightly, “How does the Colonel behave concerning his team or his troops being injured or killed?”

Beckett narrowed his eyes slightly, “What do you mean?”

“How did he react to anything that went wrong concerning his people?” JJ rephrased.

Beckett’s frowned lightly, “Fine, I suppose. He and his team would always wait by one another’s bedsides for one another to wake up,” he shrugged. “All of the teams would. And he always makes sure to stop by and check-up on anyone in the infirmary for longer than a night.”

JJ nodded slowly, “And his emotional reactions?”

Beckett’s frown deepened, “He worried over them, his team and his men. There’s not much else I can tell you I’m afraid. He’s a good commander; his men have always looked up to him.”

 

***

 

“So, where are you from?” Rossi asked Ronon Dex.

“Classified,” Dex replied shortly.

“Uh-huh,” Rossi was obviously skeptical. “And how did you meet John?”

“Classified.”

Rossi changed tactics, “You teach SERE, correct?”

Dex grunted.

“Specifically evasion techniques?”

Dex grunted again.

“John mentioned you spent seven years on the run, where was that?”

“Classified.”

“Do you enjoy teaching?” 

Dex just stared at Rossi. Rossi waited, but when Dex didn’t answer he changed tactics again. 

“I see, and how old are you Mr. Dex?”

“Dunno.”

“How long have you known John?”

“While.”

“Where did you meet?”

“Classified.”

 

***

 

“So, after we find Shep, how would you feel about going out to celebrate?” Mitchell flirted blatantly.

Prentiss raised her eyebrows, and fluttered her lashes, “Just the two of us?”

Mitchell grinned, “Well you’re welcome to bring a friend if you really want. The more the merrier.”

Prentiss rolled her eyes, “Does that ever actually work?” She inquired in honest curiosity.

“Nope,” Mitchell said cheerily, “But I learned to flirt from the best, and it’s good to stay in practice.”

“Let me guess- Dad, Uncle or Older Brother?” Prentiss drawled sarcastically.

“Neither, I learned from Vala, she’s kind of like… an exotic former dominatrix on my team.” Mitchell put on an innocent face. 

Prentiss’ eyebrows shot up, and from his spot behind the glass Spencer snickered. He really wanted a camera to capture the face Prentiss had just made.

Mitchell smirked, “Although she’d argue about the ‘former’ part.”

It was obvious that Prentiss had decided to leave that conversation behind, she cleared her throat and asked, “How did you meet Colonel Sheppard?”

“I’ve known him for years,” Mitchell sighed and scratched his chin, “Think it was ’97, maybe ’98? Casey dragged him home for a week or so when they both had some unexpected leave. I was already home on leave. Met Shep then, he was just barely a Captain. Don’t think he said two words the whole trip. Met him a few other times through the years when Casey brought him home; and we were stationed together at Ramstein for a month or so.”

Prentiss pressed lightly, “Casey?”

“My cousin, Casey, and Shep had boot camp together and ended up in the same flight. Uh, team. They were best friends.” Mitchell scratched with his index finger at the table top, and something about his phrasing sounded familiar to Spencer.

Prentiss leaned forward, “Is there any way you can contact your cousin and have him come in? He could provide a number of useful insights.”

Mitchell was shaking his head before Prentiss had finished speaking, “I’m sorry but that’s not possible.” He looked down at the table and scratched at it, “Casey was killed in action in Afghanistan in 2003.”

 

***

 

McKay glared across the interrogation table at Spencer, who looked back at him levelly. If McKay thought he was going to scare Spencer, then he had no idea what Spencer had seen, and who he’d faced across countless tables like this. It was laughable.

Not that he intended to tell McKay any of that. Spencer had gotten his measure within moments. He was terrified of losing John. The rest of his profile didn’t matter much, Spencer could (he cringed internally) play on the man’s fear to ensure his cooperation. The man’s insecurities, hidden behind a narcissistic front, had to be carefully managed however.

“Why are we here?” McKay finally spoke.

“Do you mean ‘here’ as in this room, Doctor? Or ‘here’ as in existentially?” Spencer let a slight hint of mocking slip into his voice. He knew McKay’s type. Once he started talking he wouldn’t stop. “We’re here to help get Colonel Sheppard back,” he said slowly. “You know, that guy whose friend you claim to be.”

The goading worked, “I am his friend!” McKay snapped, “And none of your psycho-mumbo-jumbo is going to do anything to get him back!”

“Oh, and what could you do to get the Colonel back then?” Spencer put just a hint of skepticism into his voice, “You’re just an astrophysicist.”

“Just an…!” McKay sputtered, “I’ll have you know that I am not just anything. I am one of the foremost astrophysicists in two galaxies, and I also have a PhD in mechanical engineering. I’ve been on Sheppard’s team for five damned years, and have saved that reckless, suicidal flyboy’s ass more times than a therapist like you can even count.”

“Um-hum,” Spencer nodded doubtfully, letting the therapist comments go. Now was not the time to get into an academic measuring contest. He’d win anyways. “Are you sure your even friends with Sheppard?” He pressed, “I mean, you call him by his last name and insult him behind his back…” He trailed off leadingly.

“It’s what we do,” McKay defended, “I insult him and make fun of his stupid hair and that weird leaning thing he does and his Kirking around and he does the same right back to me.”

“Really,” Spencer raised an eyebrow, “Sheppard hasn’t had a bad word to say about you the entire time he’s been with our team. I’ve spoken to you for less than five minutes and you’ve insulted his hair and the way he stands; and called him reckless, suicidal and a womanizer.” He tilted his head and scolded lightly, “That doesn’t sound very friendly to me.”

“You don’t understand!” McKay shouted, “Sheppard is counting on me! He’s counting on me to find him, just like every other time he gets his careless ass kidnapped! It’s my job to find him, he’s my team!” He was breathing heavily and looked ready to storm out of the room.

“It’s not your job to find him, Dr. McKay,” Spencer said more kindly, now that he had riled McKay to the point he would have no filter on his mouth. “It’s ours. We are the professionals after all.”

“The professionals that lost him in the first place,” McKay muttered angrily. Spencer didn’t deign to respond. He simply waited, one eyebrow raised. McKay would cave soon; he had nothing to go on to even begin looking for John. 

Spencer was right; McKay huffed for another few moments before sighing tiredly, “What do you want to know?”

Spencer smiled thinly, check and mate. “I want to know about John Sheppard. Tell me who he is.” He left the statement broad; it would be easier for McKay to fill in the blanks as he saw them.

“Sheppard… is a good guy.” McKay said haltingly, “The kind you can always count on to have your back. He’s smart too. But he hides it, for some reason. I still can’t get him to join the base’s MENSA chapter,” He seemed honestly perplexed by that.

“What about your comments about him being reckless and suicidal?”

“He’s not suicidal.” McKay rambled, “Not really. It’s just. It seems like he thinks he’s expendable, and he really, really isn’t. He’s always the first to rush headlong into any dangerous situation, and if the words ‘suicide mission’ are uttered he jumps on the opportunity. He always manages to make it back though, and I can never tell if he’s more surprised by the fact he’s still alive or the rest of us are. It’s… gotten better since he met his girlfriend, and since Teyla had Torren. But he still jumps in head first to any sort of dangerous mission.”

There was a word in McKay’s rambling statement that caught Spencer’s attention completely. “Girlfriend?” He didn’t let any of the skepticism he felt at that statement creep into his voice.

“Yeah,” McKay took a sip of the coffee he’d demanded, “This really hot chick, Ellie something? Grey? Greenpeace? Goldstein? I don’t know. She joined the expedition in 2006? 2007?” He waved a hand dismissively, “She’s a negotiator or something. They hang out a lot, and talk and stuff. I figure they’re at least sleeping together by now. They flirt all the time too.” He shrugged.

“That sounds reasonable,” Spencer agreed, inwardly rolling his eyes at McKay’s juvenile reasoning.

“Yes, I thought so,” McKay puffed up. “The others just give me odd looks whenever I mention it though,” he deflated slightly.

“I can’t imagine why,” Spencer didn’t quite manage to keep the sarcasm from his voice that time, but McKay didn’t seem to notice.

“Me either,” he said earnestly, “I mean everyone knows that Sheppard is practically Kirk.” He rolled his eyes and continued a rambling monologue about all of John’s supposed conquests.

Spencer bit back a sigh. It seemed that despite having known John for years McKay knew almost nothing about him. Maybe this Ellie person he’d mentioned would prove more useful. If they could find her.

 

***

 

O’Neill frowned at the other three people in the room, “I want to be perfectly clear here, the only reason you’re getting to see this video is because you all already had fairly decent security clearance. This sort of information is critical to the survival of our men and women overseas, and if these tactics get leaked somehow…” He glared menacingly. 

Rossi frowned lightly, “What about the other videos?”

“You can’t talk about those either.” O’Neill deadpanned, “That’s what ‘classified’ means.”

Prentiss glanced between the two men, and back at Spencer who shook his head slightly; he was not sticking out his neck in between those two. She sighed, “I believe Rossi meant why is this video the one you chose to accompany us with?”

O’Neill raised a sardonic eyebrow, “Because the other videos, while a matter on national security, are videos of Sheppard on his downtime, and they’ve been edited for your consumption. This is a video which contains sensitive information that lives could depend on.”

Spencer frowned lightly; whatever O’Neill was going to show them was going to be informative. But whether it would be useful was another story.

O’Neill hit play. An image of John in the front of a classroom came onto the screen. Spencer idly noted the way the other man looked in his dress blues as he watched. They all watched in silence for a long while as John lectured on different psychological techniques used to survive long term captivity and torture as his class took diligent notes.

It was disturbing, if only because they knew John had likely had to use a number of these techniques in the past in order to ensure his own survival.

“Wait, rewind a bit,” Rossi said after about an hour’s worth of videos of various lectures. O’Neill glanced at the man but obligingly rewound. Spencer once more listened to John instruct a group of soldiers, Army that time based on the uniforms, in how to shut yourself into your own head in order to avoid the pain and trauma of what was happening to your physical body. In how to disassociate from reality.

“But let’s be clear on this,” John’s voice was as sharp as a knife, “It may keep you alive, but disassociation is not healthy. It’s the psychological equivalent of anaesthetizing your arm and then cutting it off. You don’t feel anything. That’s the good part. But that doesn’t mean there’s no damage being done.

“It leaves you lacking something, something essential, something you need to function as a human being,” John continued softly.

“You have to get it back, or you’ll never be right again. It’ll leave you with a wound, and then a scar, and it’ll never be quite gone, but you can get back to functioning again. You can get your emotions and feelings back, and if you do it right – and that’s what professional help is for – you can live as a human being again.

“If you don’t, at best you will spend the rest of your life never being anything but a victim of your torture. At worst, you’ll become the kind of monster that the FBI’s profilers hunt down.”

Rossi reached for the remote O’Neill had left on the table and pressed ‘pause’. The entire room was silent. Spencer swallowed hard, of all the different methods of psychological coping John had mentioned to his classes- distortion, intellectualization, isolation, regression, repression, and Spencer knew that John would continue on in the video to detail several other psychological defense mechanisms- his voice; the knowing inherent in his speech told them all exactly which technique was the most familiar for John.

And what state they would likely find him in.

 

***

 

“So, Teyla, I hope you don’t think this too forward of me what happened to Torren’s father?” JJ asked softly. In the time they had been speaking Teyla had spoken frequently of her son and John’s interactions, at how good of a caregiver John was, at how much Torren adored him and how it was so obviously returned; but she was yet to mention Torren’s father.

Teyla tilted her head to the side slightly, and grief flashed over her features briefly, “Kanaan was lost to us shortly before Torren was born.” She bowed her head.

“I’m so sorry,” JJ said sympathetically, “I don’t know what I would have done if I’d lost Will. Especially if it had been before Henry was born.”

“You would have had the help of your closest of friends, as I did.” Teyla said firmly.

JJ smiled wanly, “It’s still not something I want to contemplate. And to be honest from what you’ve said about Colonel Sheppard, well, he’s gone above and beyond anything I could have imagined when it comes to raising your son. It’s obvious he loves that boy like his own son, even if he’s only Torren’s godfather.”

Teyla smiled, “John has informed me that the role of a ‘godfather’ in your society is very different than the closest equivalent in mine, which we call a Napata. When I first explained to John the role he would play as Torren’s Napata he was… hesitant. Doubtful of his suitability. But I would have no other and he proves that I made the correct choice daily with his care for Torren.”

JJ smiled, “I can see that. Is John good with all children, or is Torren special?” 

“John is wonderful with children,” Teyla assured her, “They flock to him. Whenever we go to my village, or another village in which the people are familiar with us the children clamor around him. He tells them the most entertaining tales, and is always willing to play games with them or teach them a new one.” Teyla chuckled, “He frequently attempts to teach them your ‘football’, but has found that ‘soccer’ is much easier to teach the children.”

JJ grinned, “As a former soccer player, I have to admit I’m pleased the sport is being spread far and wide.”

Teyla laughed, “Indeed it is.”

“Colonel Sheppard sounds like a good man,” JJ said after a moment. 

“He is the best man I know,” Teyla stated firmly. 

 

***

 

Dex sat across from Rossi with his arms crossed over his chest. 

Rossi was about ready to put his head in his hands.

“Is Sheppard a good CO?” Rossi asked tiredly, phrasing the same question in a different way for the fourth time, hoping for a more elaborate answer.

Dex grunted, “The best.”

“Do his men respect him?”

Another grunt and a curt nod.

“What’s the worst mission you’ve been on together?” Rossi attempted to throw out a curveball of a question.

“Classified,” Dex responded.

“What’s the best mission you’ve been on together?”

“Classified.”

“Do you like where you’re stationed?”

A shrug.

“How did you end up working for the Air Force?”

“Classified.”

“What size shoe do you wear? Or is that classified too?” Rossi asked sarcastically, fed up with non-answers.

Dex gave him a wicked smirk, “That’s classified too.”

 

***

 

“Colonel Mitchell,” Spencer called as the man left the interrogation room he’d been in with Prentiss.

“Yes Agent…” Mitchell trailed off obviously searching for Spencer’s name.

“Reid.”

“Reid. What can I do for you?” He seemed weary, and Spencer wasn’t surprised. As the man who’d known John the longest amount of time, even if they hadn’t been particularly good friends until they’d been stationed together briefly in late 2006, he’d been questioned intently about John.

“I had a couple of questions about John and Casey that Prentiss didn’t think to ask,” Spencer told him.

Mitchell narrowed his eyes slightly but gave Spencer a grin, “Of course,” he said with false cheer, “Whatever I can do to help y’all find Shep.”

“Great,” Spencer replied, “Walk with me, please, Colonel.”

Mitchell followed him warily, and his eyebrows shot up when Spencer led him outside of the precinct. “You sure you should be walking so far with a bum leg, Agent?”

“I’m fine,” Spencer replied, “Just… needed some fresh air.”

“Uh-huh.”

Spencer limped along, Mitchell following quietly until they’d gotten outside of the camera range. Spencer looked around and grimaced, most of street looked fairly run down. 

Mitchell glanced over and sighed, “You like coffee?”

“Yes?” 

“Come on, there’s a decent hole-in-the-wall, mom-and-pop coffee shop and bakery one of my teammates likes to frequent just around the corner from here.” Spencer nodded agreeably and followed the Colonel.

After about a block Mitchell gave Spencer a sideways glance, “The owners’ are left-over hippies, Harmony and Summer, but they’re real nice ladies. And very anti-modern technology,” he added slyly.

Spencer didn’t dignify that with a reply, merely nodding in agreement again.

Silently the two men walked to the small coffee shop. Mitchell led the way in, nodding to a small, heavy-set woman behind the counter who was drying silverware. She smiled back, and after they were settled at a small table in the corner came over to take their order. 

They were silent as they waited for their coffee to be served, but once the woman had dropped off their coffee and retreated to her drying, Mitchell turned a sharp gaze onto Spencer. “Well?” He demanded, “What did you want to ask me that you couldn’t in the police station?”

Spencer pursed his lips, considering how to phrase his questions before deciding to just ask bluntly. Mitchell didn’t seem the sort of man to appreciate subtlety. “Your cousin, Casey, and John; you claim they were ‘best friends’?” Spencer lightly emphasized the last two words.

Mitchell’s eyes narrowed, “What of it?” His voice was deceptively mild.

“The phrasing,” Spencer fiddled with his mug, “And something John said to me.”

“Oh?” Mitchell said with badly concealed hostility. Spencer flinched, but knew the man was only trying to protect his friend.

“Hmm,” Spencer hummed. “As, uh, as far as best friends go,” he said delicately, “How, uh, close were John and Casey?”

Mitchell studied him closely, and seemed to decide something before relaxing minutely, “The best of the best.” Mitchell said carefully, “They were practically attached at the hip.”

Spencer nodded; Mitchell had confirmed his supposition that the two men had been romantically involved. “And how long had they, uh, been such close friends?” It was incredibly frustrating having to delicately talk around such a crucial topic.

Mitchell tilted his head considering, “They met in OTS, like I said, back in ’93, I think?” He scratched at the table lightly with one index finger as he sipped his mug of coffee, “They got real close after they ended up on the same, uh, team in ’95? Maybe?”

Spencer nodded, “Do you know what their ‘team’ did for the Air Force?”

Mitchell shook his head, “Nah, it was one of those teams you only ever heard whispers about, you know? Only reason I knew anything is because Casey was on it, and it was pretty obvious when he stopped being able to tell even me anything. And I had decent clearance, even back then.”

Spencer paused and took a sip of his drink again, “How long did, uh, John and Casey remain ‘best friends’?”

“’Til the day Casey died.”

 

***

 

Spencer watched the video of John crawling around the floor with Torren. It wasn’t a very long video, but Teyla had stepped out of the room while it played. Beside him Morgan and Prentiss watched in silence. 

John would lift the child, Spencer estimated he was about a year old, and buzz him through the air like an airplane as the boy laughed and squealed. After a bit he tossed the boy up and down a few times before settling him on his hip.

“Let’s go get a book Torren,” John said softly. He put the boy on the floor and pointed out of the camera range, “Can you find us a book?” 

The boy looked between John and where he was pointing before he pulled himself up and toddled towards where John was pointing.

“Yes Torren, that’s a book! Good job! Can you bring it here?” John called to the boy. The boy rapidly toddled back into the room carrying a fabric book.

“Oh, ‘The Little Engine That Could’, great choice buddy!” John cuddled the boy and smacked kisses on his cheeks as he sat down on a small sofa.

Spencer listened to John recite the story as Torren stared up at him, chewing on a corner of the book.

“That was a good story Torren. What did you think?” John paused to let the boy reply in a stream of babble.

“Alright buddy, bath time,” He kissed the boy’s cheek again, before walking off screen.

The video jumped forward and Torren was in pajamas, his dark hair slightly damp. There was a plush floppy-eared rabbit in his arms. John was sitting with him on his lap on the sofa. He read Torren another story, ‘Corduroy’. 

The little boy had his head on John’s shoulder and his right thumb in his mouth as he fought against closing his eyes. John snuggled the boy in closer and said so softly the watching profiler’s could barely hear it:

“Who loves you? I do.

“How much? So very much.

“How do you know? I tell you so.

“Each and every day. Each and every way.” John stood, rocking the boy slightly and pressing a kiss to his forehead. “I love you my Torren, sweet dreams, dance with the sugar plum fairies tonight buddy.”

 

***

 

It was nearly 2:30 in the afternoon before all of the interviews were finished and John’s friends had left. Although Rossi had made sure they’d all be able to be contacted if the BAU needed to speak with any of them again. Now the team and Shanahan were all crowded around the conference room table picking at their lunches and discussing the case.

“So here’s the one thing I can’t figure out,” Morgan began.

“Only one?” Prentiss muttered.

Morgan pointedly ignored her, “Why Sheppard? I mean, I get that the guy superficially fits the unsub’s type- dark hair, green eyes, right age- but he’s been in town for five days. There was no way anyone could know whether or not Sheppard was homosexual. And that’s a critical part of the victomology.”

“Not to mention the fact that the unsub is extremely organized, he’s a planner,” Rossi pointed out. “He stalks his victims to learn their routine, and then always kidnaps them at the same time: late Friday evening. He grabbed John on a Tuesday in the early afternoon. That screams impulsive and really goes to show how he’s devolving.”

Before they could get too far into their discussion they were interrupted.

“Agents,” a frazzled Colonel Mitchell burst into the conference room, a blonde woman in a Colonel’s uniform hot on his heels. Spencer recognized her as Colonel Sam Carter after a few seconds.

Behind the two of them was a uniformed patrol officer bellowing, “Stop! You can’t go in there!”

“Colonel Mitchell,” Rossi stood. “We’ve got this,” he waved the uniform off. “What can I do for you and Colonel…?”

“Carter,” she supplied, “Dr. Samantha Carter. I’ve got a list for you.”

“A list?” Morgan stood as well, leaning forward eagerly.

Carter nodded, “General O’Neill asked me to compile a list of possible suspects for you,” she explained. “I extrapolated the data based on the footage in the video of the technology used and who was able to access it.” She frowned, “Unfortunately it was a fairly long list as far as the… stun gun went, but cross-referencing it with who was able to access the other piece of tech shortened the list considerably.”

She handed over several sheets of paper. Rossi flipped through them; there were six pages of names. 

“That’s shortened?” Prentiss said in dismay.

Carter’s frown deepened, “Yes, I had to include over three years’ worth of people who have had clearance at one point or another,” she shrugged, “And that’s not even considering the possibility your killer could have stolen an ID card or broken in.”

Morgan let out a noisy sigh, “Well, it’s something at least. I’ll get Garcia started on combing through the list to see who fits the profile, and general description of the unsub.”

“Is there anything else-” Carter began but Mitchell interrupted.

“Hey Carter, come here,” he called. Spencer looked over to where he was standing by the evidence boards. 

“This timeline,” Mitchell muttered, “It looks familiar.” 

Spencer stood and followed Carter over to where Mitchell was JJ and Prentiss on their heels.

“What do you mean?” Spencer asked.

“July 2005, this guy lost it, right?” Mitchell pointed at the board where Barton’s, Williamson’s, and Dumont’s photos were.

“Technically,” Spencer began but Prentiss interrupted.

“Yes.” Spencer shot her a mild glare.

“Right and this guy- Parker- he was killed in September 2006, yeah? The 24th it looks like?” Mitchell glanced over at them and waited for their nods in response. “Right. Except, according to his earlier schedule he’s a month early. Parker shouldn’t have died until October.”

“Where are you going with this Cam?” Carter asked. Spencer wondered the same thing.

“Hold on a moment, I want to make sure. And this guy in November 2006- Carter, uh, Andre Carter? He was killed on the 26th?”

Again Prentiss said, “Yes.”

“Okay and he seems to normally kill at the end of the month, yeah? But here, this last January- he killed Benjamin on the 9th.” Mitchell pointed out.

“Cam, seriously-” Carter pressed.

Mitchell shook his head, “You don’t see it, do you?” He looked over at Carter. Spencer watched their interaction avidly.

“See what?” She said in exasperation.

“This timeline- the big changes in it?” Mitchell looked at Carter. “What happened in July of 2005 that was big, huge news?” He didn’t pause for more than a second before answering himself, “That’s when Sheppard and the rest of the survivors of the command team from the first year of the expedition came back to base after the invasion. When Sheppard got promoted to Lieutenant Colonel.”

“Okay,” Carter agreed, “And the rest of the dates?”

“September 21, 2006- the expedition got kicked back to, uh, the States,” he glanced over his shoulder at Spencer and the others. “And in November-”

“Holy Hannah, that’s right after they went back after John’s ridiculous rescue actually worked,” Carter breathed out.

“Exactly!” Mitchell exclaimed, “And this last January-”

“Was right after the-” 

“Yeah! And even Massimo- last month- he was killed the week after John’s promotion and award ceremony. That’s when this guy really broke down too.” Mitchell finished.

“Oh God,” Carter covered her mouth with one hand. “This whole time it’s-”

Mitchell nodded slowly, looking over the faces of the victims, “Yeah.” 

“What?” Shanahan demanded. 

Spencer felt his stomach drop as Mitchell’s information began to file into place.

Mitchell looked over at them slowly, “He’s been after Sheppard this whole time.” 

Grimly Spencer said, “John Sheppard was the unsub’s number one target. The ‘first victim’, so to speak. And now he has him.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!POSSIBLE TRIGGER WARNING!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 
> 
> There are descriptions of torture and injury in this chapter, please do not read if this will cause an issue for you. It's not extremely graphic, but it is there. If you are invested in the story but unable or unwilling to read this chapter for that reason please feel free to PM me for a synopsis. 
> 
> APOLOGIES: To my readers who have stuck it out this long I am sorry for my delay in updating. My real life can be rather hectic and I have Author ADD, so... not a great combination. This story will be finished, I can guarantee that. I don't leave works incomplete forever, some stories just take me longer than others, and this chapter was particularly difficult for me.
> 
> Please enjoy the latest installment of "Unexpected"! 
> 
> I'd like to thank my amazing, wonderful, patient beta and cheerleader Evelyna. You are awesome beyond words.

John sputtered and choked violently as a hose on full power was shoved into his mouth. He could feel one of his teeth crack from the metal lip slamming into it, and tears tried to fight their way from his eyes as he gagged on the furious flood of water down his throat.

He pushed through the pain as he tried to focus on swallowing as much of the tepid, metallic water as possible. He knew it would likely be his only chance to drink anything today. Between his wounds and the weather he would need as much water as possible to survive as long as he could.

Fighting his gag reflex John continued to choke down the stale tasting water, praying that it was uncontaminated. He glared through the pain at his torturer. Several minutes later the deluge finally ended. John sucked in deep, rasping breaths, trying to keep from vomiting at the uneasy weight of the water in his stomach.

His tongue prodded at his front tooth gently, holding back a hiss at the pain. It felt like half of the tooth was gone.

John was startled from his thoughts when he was unexpectedly sent crashing to the floor as the chains that had been partially supporting his weakened body slackened suddenly. John let a minor whimper escape as his aching mouth was jostled badly in the fall, and he bit his tongue.

While he was disoriented, his torturer rearranged his bindings- John was now in a seated position, with enough slack in his arms to lower them, and likely his whole body, to the floor. But there was no spare room to move anywhere else, and his feet were still bound tightly.

“Don’t want you dying too soon on me Cash, it‘s happened before,” the man chuckled cruelly, “Gotta get my money’s worth, so to speak.” 

John glared up at the man he’d once called if not friend then at least brother-in-arms. He didn’t beg, or plead, or demand to know why. Instead he waited.

The man bent down and patted John on the head mockingly, “Sweet dreams, Johnny. Don’t let- Son of a BITCH!”

John had spat a mouthful of bloody saliva into the other man’s face. Grim satisfaction and fear both wended their way down his spine as he watched the man’s face contort in anger.

“You little shit,” the man kicked John viciously. Once, twice, three kicks and John felt a rib or two crack. The man smirked and lashed out his booted foot once more. John forced in a deep breath as at least one crack became a break. “That’ll teach you, you fucking faggot,” the man swore.

John watched through narrowed eyes as the other man left the warehouse. As the man clicked the lock shut on the other side of the door he slumped to the ground, letting out a huff of air.

“Fuck,” he whispered to himself, “Fuckity fuck fuck. Why the hell does this shit always happen to me?”

Letting his head drop to the ground John angled his body carefully to keep the pressure off of his broken rib and allowed himself to relax as best as he was able. He’d do a med check on himself in a minute, right now he just wanted to breathe. 

Taking deep, measured breaths allowed John to focus on something besides the pain. Even if each breath felt like someone was stabbing him and twisting the knife.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

John breathed in again. He couldn’t tell if his ribs were just cracked or actually broken, but he was grateful that if they were they weren’t out of alignment. Which meant they hadn’t damaged anything significant. He wasn’t in any danger from his ribs unless the unsub managed to kick a rib into his lungs in the future.

Rolling onto his back John shuddered at the feeling of cold, tacky concrete on his injured back. He knew the stickiness was his own blood. Thinking of the hose had John prodding at his front tooth again with a wince, when he got out of here it would need to be capped.

He was making the… man who did it pay his medical bills. 

John dropped his head back onto the concrete. He needed to think of something to call the unsub, and he wasn’t dignifying the man with his real name. Or his old callsign.

He’d lost that right when he’d murdered his first victim. John thought on it for a moment before deciding to call the traitor Arnold. It was rather fitting in a Revolutionary War sort of way.

John snorted out loud and muttered to himself, “And this whole situation’s practically medieval.” 

He sighed, enough time had passed for him not to be hopped up on adrenaline and he needed to take stock of both himself and the situation. He’d been imprisoned, and tortured, before. He knew the drill.

Hell he taught the drill.

“Pop quiz,” he joked softly. He didn’t laugh. It was true in a twisted, depraved way.

‘First step: physical wellbeing,’ John sighed in his own head.

His mouth still felt like someone had kicked him in the face, and he could taste blood. But there wasn’t much fresh bleeding. Which, hey, point to John- he wasn’t going to choke to death on his own blood.

He also didn’t need to take his own pulse, the pounding in his head gave him an easy way to time it. It was faster than usual, his resting pulse rate tended to be pretty low, but slowing down a bit. It also told him he’d injured his head at some point between being captured and waking up instead of the headache being attributed to the Zat blast as he’d originally assumed. At most though it was a low-grade concussion, so John wasn’t too worried for now.

Time to check his bones and muscles. John curled his toes first and then flexed his feet and calves. Scooting down he moved his legs at the knee and then tightened and released his thigh muscles as best he could. Despite hissing as some of the cuts reopened and a nasty bruise on his right thigh, he was relieved that he hadn’t really injured his legs- no broken bones or severe muscle pain meant escaping on foot was still an option.

If Arnold thought being naked would keep him from running he was a moron. Well, more of a moron; he had kidnapped a high-ranking military officer in a military city that was already on high alert with an FBI profiling team already in town.

John sat up and moved his arms and shoulders as much as possible- they needed the increased blood flow after having been trapped in the same position for over twenty-four hours, plus it stretched his muscles. His shoulders ached from the strain that had been placed on them, especially the left one, but they moved easily enough so he hadn’t dislocated one again. The cuts on his arms rubbed against the cuffs and being forced to sit up only using his abdominal muscles had aggravated his ribs and the cuts on his back. He could feel fresh blood trickling down his spine. Luckily he only felt bruises on the rest of his torso and arms. 

His only serious injury was his ribs, and he’d walked alone across war-torn Serbia with a badly dislocated shoulder, a broken collar bone, and half the ribs on his left side cracked after being shot down in enemy territory. He could make it to an occupied area of Colorado Springs with one or two broken ribs.

Looking around John studied his surroundings again, trying to find a way out. The warehouse was filthy, with rubble strewn around the edges. Spotting the nearest piece he sighed, it was a good ten feet away. Around him the only things on the floor were his ankle cuffs and his blood. The walls were solid and the windows and skylights were covered, the afternoon sun casting a dull yellow glow around the edges. The jury-rigged, flickering bulbs lighting the warehouse gave off a low buzz, and the cursed hose was still dripping. John grimaced, that would get annoying if he allowed himself to pay attention to it. Looking around John still couldn’t find any cameras in the warehouse now that he was calmer.

He eyed the table lined with the instruments Arnold had used to torture him with disgust, he felt a spike of fear- then he took a deep breath and pushed it away. He glanced at the stack of tarps and frowned for a half a second before realizing Arnold probably used them to transport the victims’ bodies. With a frown John looked away, drawing his arms towards his face and looking closely at the manacles around his wrist. 

The chains rattled as he moved his arms and John shuddered as those memories rose to the front of his mind, “She’s not here,” he whispered, “It isn’t her. It isn’t her. It isn’t her.” His breathing sped up and he quickly started to rationalize the ‘benefits’ of Arnold’s version of incarceration in comparison to his previous stints as a prisoner.

In a way it was easier with Arnold present- between the insults about John and his psychotic ranting about ‘deserving it more’ and ‘being better at it’ (John was still trying to figure out what exactly it was)- his voice had kept John from having flashbacks to when he’d been tortured by Aston. Arnold’s gruff tone was so strikingly different from Aston’s high pitch that it was easy to stay in the present instead of sliding into the past, by focusing on Arnold John was able to stay focused period. A fact which was critical to his survival. Also, unlike Aston, Arnold had never sexually assaulted his victims- whether due to homophobia, hatred of his own sexuality or inability to do so- which was definitely a point in John’s favor.

Sliding into memories of the times he was a prisoner of war was easier to avoid. First off Arnold wasn’t screaming at him in Spanish while torturing his teammate and friend to death in front of him. (Although, admittedly, the methods of torture were disturbingly similar.) Second, he wasn’t speaking and ranting in Arabic about filthy Americans whilst torturing him. Finally, Arnold wasn’t feeding him to a Wraith, so, you know, bonus points for that.

Once John had slowed his breathing from the minor panic attack he winced, he’d curled up instinctively and torn open more of the cuts on his back, and while blood loss was not an issue at the moment it would become one if he didn’t stop tearing open his wounds.

His most immediate issues were dehydration and exposure. The tepid hose water would hopefully be enough to keep him alive, if not strong, since he was unsure how much he’d actually drunk. Reaching up a hand he touched his freshly shaved head gently, scars easily felt without his hair. He sighed as his hand came away with flakes of dried blood, Arnold had been careless when he’d shaved John’s hair, thus cutting the scars open in places.

It had happened when he’d first gone to OTS. He’d tried to warn the man in charge of giving them their military haircuts but he hadn’t listened and John had suffered the indignity of having to report to the infirmary first in his training class. The only upside was that the man had been reprimanded by the base commander because not only had John verbally informed him of the scars but they were in his file. John had become far more confident in his choice to enlist after the base commander had shown that he was fair and willing to take the side of raw recruits.

The shaved hair and exposed scars didn’t bother him. But he knew they bothered other people and so had always kept his hair as long as regulations would allow. Arnold had been amused by them. It would also result in him losing body heat faster tonight, not by an extreme amount, but a few degrees could make all the difference.

Still, it was yet another injury with blood loss that would be aggravated by dehydration. Thinking of the risk of dehydration John pinched the skin on the back of his left hand in his right hand and watched keenly as his skin smoothed out completely, if more slowly than normal. He sighed in relief, he was a bit dehydrated but not enough to worry over yet.

Soon though.

Well, soon he’d be dead one way or another if he couldn’t escape or somehow give the BAU a flashing, neon sign that Arnold was the unsub. He shook his head in dismay.

Grimacing as the pain in his head intensified at his, quite honestly, idiotic move he knew he needed to use some sort of pain management technique soon. John sighed gustily, at least he hadn’t gotten dizzy or seen spots.

John longed to dampen the pain he was in by allowing himself to drift off to a safe (but not too safe) spot in his mind. He considered his safe spots, choosing carefully which one to use once he was ready to relax for the night. You had to be careful, he always told his students, because if your safe memories were too safe you might become complacent, with no real reason to stay alert. 

If this was going to be about surviving long term torture, he’d have gone home to his grandparents with Bubbe cooking in the kitchen and Zayde puttering about the garage. But this wasn’t a long term survival mission, John needed to be alert in order to fight back and escape. Which meant a reasonably but not completely safe place and Atlantis served that purpose nicely. As much as he loved his city it was hard to ever truly relax there, what with Wraith in the neighborhood, exploding tumor machines and energy sucking beings hidden down the hall.

One thing before that, however. John first needed to perform a mental health check to make sure he was still sane. Well as sane as he ever was, he mused. He also needed to come up with a plan before he could allow himself to wander Atlantis mentally. Closing his eyes John considered the questions he’d taught his recruits to ask themselves if they were taken prisoner.

And then dismissed most of them as useless. This wasn’t his first rodeo. He’d had far too much experience with being a prisoner- both as a child and when he had been at war- to need the rote questions he taught his students. He didn’t need the checklist and routine to keep him from panicking or to remember what to do- he’d lived through this before, and Goddammit he was going to live through it again.

John didn’t care about the whole checklist, basically the only questions he cared about for himself were: How am I coping? Do I care if I live or die? And how am I going to escape?

His answers were fairly straightforward as well: ‘with dark sarcasm’ and ‘I’m not dead yet so, you know, winning.’ 

John sighed, he always told his recruits to make sure they thought about what they had to get home to- wives, husbands, kids, moms and dads, brothers and sisters, hell their dog if need be. To use those memories, those people to keep themselves going, to keep them caring about living, to give them a reason.

That didn’t work for John. If he started that way he always felt like there wasn’t much he had left to hold on for, which was counter-intuitive to his survival. So he went about it backwards. He started with the idea of giving up, considered it, and then beat it back with every single thing he had left in this world. If he had enough reasons to keep going he passed his psych check. He’d never come up short yet.

So John laid back and honestly, sincerely considered giving up. He would die. He would see his mother and brother again. His Bubbe and Zayde. Casey. God, he could see Casey again. His heart ached with yearning at the thought. 

But what would Casey say? He’d be furious. And his Bubbe would kill him a second time. Zayde would give him that disappointed look that always made John feel worse than pond scum.

And… Torren. John couldn’t, wouldn’t do that to Torren, leaving him (John swallowed heavily) fatherless a second time. John wasn’t the best father Torren could ask for, but he was a damn sight better than a lot of men.

John himself could give plenty of proof to that.

So, there really was no choice. John couldn’t, wouldn’t give up. That had never really been in question. John didn’t want to die, not really. Sometimes though he thought he could use the break that death promised.

What he really needed a damned vacation.

John promised himself that as soon as he was out of here he was taking Torren, Teyla and Ronon to Disney. He would invite Rodney but already knew his answer would be a resounding no, the older man claimed to have flashbacks of Disney World from a family trip when he was thirteen.

John still hadn’t managed to get the story out of him, and asking Jeanie had reduced her to hysterics. She’d literally been unable to speak through her laughter.

John smiled; he hadn’t been to Disney in years. After Disney they could stay at his place in Palo Alto for a few days, maybe a week. He could teach Ronon and Teyla to surf without having to worry about psychic whales, or toxic eels, or that weird plankton-stuff on P9X-883 that ate fiberglass.

John still mourned that surfboard. It had been a really nice board. 

And then he and Spencer would go out for a nice dinner. Maybe a movie, an old movie though, a classic. Maybe a foreign language film, that would be fun.

But in order to go to Disney and to surf and take Spencer out he needed to escape. Now that he had better access to them he studies the manacles on his wrists and ankles. They were solid, thick and well cared for with no rusted or weak areas to take advantage of. The cuffs and chains securing his ankles were the same.

“Damn it,” John swore, Arnold had always been meticulous about his gear when they’d served together. Was it any wonder the guy everyone had called OCD behind his back was still painstakingly careful with his gear?

He’d never be able to get the shackles off of his feet. It was literally impossible and his last name wasn’t Houdini. He peered more closely at the manacles around his wrists again. Slowly a plan coalesced in his mind. With a sigh he moved his body so that the right manacle was secured between his knees.

He took a deep breath- this was going to hurt.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Misunderstanding](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2903375) by [Evelyna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evelyna/pseuds/Evelyna)




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